“I think,” began Ann Veronica, “that you don’t realize—” He disregarded her entirely. He was Julian five years younger, the spitting image. To his consternation, she was holding an unwieldy, ugly-looking pistol, all wood and tarnished steel, with both hands about the butt. Not that there had ever been any hope of that. You don’t understand, Lucy, they just aren’t like that. She moaned as he buried himself completely to the hilt.
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