—Jonathan Wild: August 31st, 1724. 123 It didn’t take long. Her hormones were raging stupidly. ‘Come, Jacques, mon pauvre,’ she uttered, and reached for the lad again, hardly aware of the muted sounds of running feet and much banging and crashing beyond the secret door. "I've been wondering, until this morning, if you were real. The fragrance of dryer sheets lay upon her like the snow that now drifted peacefully outside. I'm not sure I'd go out with him anyway.
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