That was how she projected it, and in general terms it seemed plausible and possible. "Remember the devil!" retorted Terence, who had recovered his natural audacity. “I suppose most people’s letters are queer. Or perhaps my father once. Walking into the bedroom, she quickly shed the miniskirt and sweater, folding them without ceremony. Her sleepless night had left her languid but not stupefied, and for an hour or so the work distracted her altogether from her troubles.
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