“Annabel!” He looked at her thoughtfully. She fondled his penis which was stiff and straining against his pants. She looked at her flattened belly. Hey. Constance Widgett’s abundant copper-red hair was bent down over some dimly remunerative work—stencilling in colors upon rough, white material—at a kitchen table she had dragged up-stairs for the purpose, while on her bed there was seated a slender lady of thirty or so in a dingy green dress, whom Constance had introduced with a wave of her hand as Miss Miniver. The McCloskeys had picked Lucy from a bunch of children languishing at the Illinois Christian Home for Children. It was not that the servants could not, they simply preferred to. ’ ‘Well, sir? Who is “she”? Not my granddaughter, I take it.
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