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“I wonder,” he said, “how you would like to be made love to—boldly or timorously or sentimentally. Anything. Diving towards it, he tried to press against the rivulet that was seeping from it, hampered mightily by Melusine’s fingers, which were grasping at his other hand. She forced herself not to think of John. He fondled her naked breasts with his fingers, then his mouth. Only in the sunshine; they would not answer my whistle on cloudy days.
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