Not that there had ever been any hope of that. At least I imagine so, if what Madame Valade claims is true. He devoured her with his eyes too, his shyness not able to disguise his furtive glances at the curvy outline of her breast against the imitation silk, his memory still exquisitely tortured by her movements in the miniskirt. Still, something had marked the face, something had left an indelible touch. I’m a man, and I know what I mean.
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