192 Her skirt had ridden almost to her hips. The sun was setting in spectacular multicolored streams beyond Whitefield Park. . . Probably a sick man's whim. Opposite, his pupil stood with bowed head and clasped hands. She cursed herself for a fool. Come along, my Newgate bird!" he continued, shaking him with great violence. And then she could see nothing at all for his lips founds hers.
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