His fingers slipped under the collar of her linen shift and he tore it open with a swipe. He was about to cut the sergeant short, when his eye fell on a gentleman walking along Piccadilly, his manner uncertain, his eyes shifting as if he sought something out. I have neither father, mother, brother, sister, nor husband—I have only him. It’s the poor dears who do, who know they will, know they can’t keep it up, who need to clutch at way-side flowers.
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