" "You say that the miniature was abstracted from Lady Trafford's jewel-box," said Jonathan, in a loud voice. He devoured her with his eyes too, his shyness not able to disguise his furtive glances at the curvy outline of her breast against the imitation silk, his memory still exquisitely tortured by her movements in the miniskirt. She doesn't love you; she hasn't the least idea what it means beyond what she has read in novels.
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