“I don’t know whether I shall go on,” said Gwen, a novel note of languorous professionalism creeping into her voice. “Why won’t you sleep in my bed tonight, Lucia, where 80 it’s warm?” He asked her one night, teasing but mournful, as she stood in her bedroom doorway in a long white gown. E. She drew up a chair and sat down, putting her palm on the damp, cold forehead.
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