“Do you think you’ll ever get married, Lucy?” Lucy shifted uncomfortably as she pulled her makeshift nightgown—an old T-shirt—over her head. But don’t run away with the idea that I’m hanging out for a wife at last, because I’m not. Age is set, impervious to innovations. “Come with me. Single pearls— Lord knows where they come from!—are always turning up, some of them of fine lustre; but I never set eyes on them. There was only one prisoner in the ward. As he felt the threshold of soft wetness he froze and said, “Lucy, are you sure?” She whispered, “Yes,” and guided the top of his penis into her vagina. It was the beginning and the end of the transaction. His horse, which had apparently gone to sleep, preferred to remain where he was. She yielded it without protest, as though unconsciously. She had never said anything so horrible to anyone in her life.
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