A post-chaise seen in the road first alarmed us. Her foster father, Larry, was the hard working son-of-a-bitch type with a disdain for suits. Later, she understood his reasons; and it had now become habit. I will come later to see you, Melusine. It had ceased now, but as he closed in on the area, a faint muttering came to his ears. He pumped as she raised her legs obediently. The taste of his sweat was intoxicating, like sweet brandy, like blood.
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