It was about—a question of what I might do or might not do. For a time he heard no more, and stared with stony eyes at a Book-War proclamation in leaded type that filled half a column of the Times that day. And I want you for myself—for my wife. She felt conscious of her nipples becoming visibly erect under the tight t-shirt and wished that she owned a thicker brassiere. “You are Sir John Ferringhall,” she repeated. And with his clenched hand he struck him a violent blow in the face. I just want him, and no one else will do. Spurling bit her lips to conceal her mirth. “To tell you the truth though, I am quite a stranger in London, and it occurred to me that Mr. You are your own Heaven and your own Hell, Lucy. How I envied Gianfrancesco on his wedding night, how I writhed in agony just thinking 171 about his intimacies with you! Then you became pregnant, and there he was, posturing and gloating like the rest of the family, my divinations of a boy in your womb pronounced. Think better of it.
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