She kept trying to shut her legs, to stop the baby from coming out. Her heels made contact with Rhea’s knees and hobbled her with a crack. She leaned forward and addressed him. He could not kiss Ruth because the acquired conscience—struggling on its way to limbo—made the idea repellant. The arrangement had been made by the town matchmaker, a frightening old oak of a man. She disengaged her hands and stood up. Good-bye, aunt. ToC Tyburn was now at hand.
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