58 \"Why will you not touch me?\" She cried out, sitting up, her head in her hands. Lucy replied, \"My hair has a mind of its own. He renewed his supplications to Sharples, but with no better success than heretofore; and the greater part of the night was passed by him and the poor widow, whose anxiety, if possible, exceeded his own, in the most miserable state imaginable. He carried her in his arms up the steps, like a bride on her honeymoon. But from the rest—you saved me. She slipped her hand between them and grasped his erection. She flew up from her stool and faced the door.
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