“Does he ever ask about me?” She asked, feeling like a cuckolded old maid. “You see,” he said, “from my point of view you’re grown up— you’re as old as all the goddesses and the contemporary of any man alive. Gerald doubted there would be many eager suitors, even assuming the comtesse was keen to marry off her daughter to a foreign protestant. He sucked at her neck, biting her hard, leaving red marks that disappeared as soon as he made them. Their idea of maidenly innocence was just a blank white—the sort of flat white that doesn’t shine. The children made us slaves, and the men took advantage of it. Not much to his surprise, Jack Kimble shook his head. You do not know him.
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