Damn! I’ve splashed. Wood. The prostitute’s attack was predictable, typical. “We don’t pretend. He was conscious of a peculiar pleasure in sitting there and thinking of those few hours which already were becoming to assume a definite importance in his mind—a place curiously apart from those dry-as-dust images which had become the gods of his prosaic life. This one too she read. The beautiful gowns and the flashing bare shoulders and arms of the women had disturbed and distressed her. The sound of her flying feet brought Gerald leaping for the door. And I’ve read, and thought, and guessed, and looked—until MY innocence—it’s smirched. She was my first love.
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