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Her fanciful imagination no longer drew pictures of the aunt in the doorway of a wooden house, her arms extended in welcome. He tugged at the overly large hooded sweatshirt, which she unzipped and let fall to the ground. I could be presented as Meysey Hill. In the genuinely dissipated face there was always a suggestion of slyness in ambush, peeping out of the wrinkles around the eyes and the lips. But I am not worthy to be any man's wife —far less his wife. She was sorry for his liking her too much for his own good, but her need was too desperate to cavil at turning it to useful account. ‘The place was full of barbers and military men.
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