He lowered himself onto her and entered her slowly, an inch at a time. One has to train one’s self not to. Lucy could see the anger in her silhouette, the punishments and the grounding being formulated for the now dead daughter. A moment before, the surface of the stream was black as ink. "Your health, Kneebone. Here was Ruth Enschede—sick of love! Love—something the world would always keep hidden from her, at least human love.
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