” “But don’t you see how I must stand to you? Don’t you see how it bars us from being lovers—You can’t—at first. ’ A gleam of rare humour slid into Charvill’s chest. He wore a battered sunhelmet, a loin-cloth and a pair of dilapidated canvas shoes. He stood by her side, and he suffered her hands to rest in his. She tried gentle words with him, beguiling perfumes, even slipped aphrodisiac tisanes into his soup. Just let him down easy, Lucy.
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