Supposing she saw the young man at dinner that night, emptying his bottle? She could not go to him, sit down and draw the sordid pictures she had seen so often. If you knew anything about Canton ware, you were, as like as not, sorely tempted to stuff a teacup into your pocket. She nibbled at his neck gently, sweetly, as her hand tracing his chest. Whether it was the nun’s habit or the harlot’s clothing that distressed her more, he could not begin to guess. “Shit happens, John.
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