good, miss. . Lucy had snuck in the back door by the kitchen and Sheila was ready for her, standing between the stove 124 and the refrigerator. The taste of his sweat was intoxicating, like sweet brandy, like blood. She saw herself begin a slow, sinuous dance: and stop suddenly in the middle of a figure, conscious that the dance was not impromptu, her own, but native—the same dance she had quitted but a few minutes gone. Never mind. But I’m not a slut either, if that’s what you think.
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