To that, perhaps, a large part of its satisfyingness was due. With a swirl of her floral chintz petticoats, she placed herself in the capacious window seat, accepted the glass Gerald handed to her, and smiled mischievously up at him. She took refuge in beating her pillow and inventing insulting epithets for herself. She felt his crotch through his jeans. Her mind invoked her husband, who she imagined lying dead in a ditch somewhere, tortured and killed by brigands or perhaps eaten by creatures like herself, a fate he actually deserved. .
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