She would come back and write letters, carefully planned and written letters, or read some book she had fetched from Mudie’s—she had invested a half-guinea with Mudie’s—or sit over her fire and think. He thrust into her slowly at first, astonished at the natural amount of resistance and unexpected friction which nearly drove him to come instantaneously. Day after day—five, to be exact—she had returned to Morgan's; and each time the man would understand what had drawn her, and with a kindly smile would sit down at the piano and play. ‘In fact you admitted only that you had no more weapons.
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