It did not matter in the least what name the young fellow was travelling under; all James Boyle O'Higgins wanted was the letter H. She came in while he was still in the throes, conviction battling with commonsense, his own apprehension. 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.
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