‘I believe that. 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. As the Wastrel rushed, Spurlock sidestepped, swept the ball into his hand, set himself and threw it. He pushed her to his bed, little more than a cot, and pulled off her clothes. What is done cannot be undone. Certain simple purposes emerged from the disingenuous muddle of her feelings and desires.
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