Her aunt had summoned up an altogether too vivid picture of her father as the masterful man, overbearing, emphatic, sentimental, noisy, aimless. The lunches were individual affairs: sandwiches, bottled olives and jam commandeered from the Victoria. The odds were astounding and yet he had it bad. His clothes were smartly pressed, his linen white, his jaws cleanly shaven; but the day would come when he would grow indifferent to bodily cleanliness. But the recollection of the warm pliant body in his arms …! "I am a thief!" he whispered. Oh, don't worry. She was faint from hunger, her head spinning into dizziness, the blood madness readying for battle. "I never told anybody," she went on. Ireton, you are in league with him.
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