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He suckled at her shoulder blade as he slid her panties down. I understand. The Wastrel wiped the blood from his forehead. “It was your own fault,” she exclaimed. ‘There is no one who could have told him this. It is for that reason that this novel begins with her there, and neither earlier nor later, for it is the history of this crisis and its consequences that this novel has to tell. She refused to accept her fate, but what is it that she could do about it? Night after night she invented alternatives.
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