\" She cooed into his ear, stroking his chest hair. A man's laced hat,—whether adopted from the caprice of the moment, or habitually worn, we are unable to state,—cocked knowingly on her head, harmonized with her masculine appearance. “Too late, my dear girl,” she exclaimed. Ray Plote was most certainly feeling restless, what if he had left the house for the evening? She needed to eat.
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