The gallant woollen-draper was now in his thirty-sixth year. G. Delight surged through her as her breasts, shoulders, and belly touched his naked flesh all at once. Better to remain silent. She had been fighting down this thought for days: that Hoddy did not care, that he did not love her, that he had mistaken a vagary of the mind for a substance, and now regretted what he had done— married a girl who was not his equal in anything. Very well. At least I rather hoped I might spend my time chasing smugglers, which would have afforded some excitement.
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