But there is need for the proof that I am me, and that is what I look for. . As she did so, the ruffles to the jacket of her riding habit fell away, exposing livid blue bruises about her wrist, ugly in the light of day from the window at their back. He pushed her to his bed, little more than a cot, and pulled off her clothes. I am grateful, indeed I am. “It is possible, mademoiselle,” he said, “that this affair is not yet ended.
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