\"Where have you been, young lady?\" Mike crooned, a large grin on his fat Irish face. “I want you so much, Lucy. ‘You would read my mind?’ Gerald was pretty certain he already had, but he did not say so. He found that the skiff had been dashed against one of the buttresses of the bridge. Forgive me. “Why, it’s David!” he exclaimed. It isn’t the same thing. There’s something—puppyish in a man’s usual attitude to women.
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