The season was ripe for mating, she thought to herself bitterly. Then Capes flittered to the hearthrug and poked the fire, stood up, and turned about. . All the turnkeys were assembled. “Let’s go home. She counted three on the way to the train and four more on the crowded car that would have gladly taken him to bed with not so much as a word. The pursuit of pleasure, selfgratification, is an original instinct with her.
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