He looked at her, hurt. A shy virgin bride would not press her thigh sinuously against his, nor consent indeed to this clandestine little comedy he had been playing. “Is that so? Who says?” He demanded, his eyebrows arching as he looked at her with puerile glee. Why? Because Howard Spurlock the author dared not risk the liberty of Howard Spurlock the malefactor; because there were still some dregs in this cup of irony. It ought never to have begun. But it is my fault. With an open hand, he slapped her face.
Video ID: TW96aWxsYS81LjAgQXBwbGVXZWJLaXQvNTM3LjM2IChLSFRNTCwgbGlrZSBHZWNrbzsgY29tcGF0aWJsZTsgQ2xhdWRlQm90LzEuMDsgK2NsYXVkZWJvdEBhbnRocm9waWMuY29tKSAtIDMuMTQ0LjE5LjI2IC0gMDctMDctMjAyNCAxMzo1Njo0NyAtIDE4NzcyOTczMzg=
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