‘Do please continue,’ Gerald begged, deceptively docile. If only there had not been this single torturing thought—a mere pin-prick, but still curiously persistent. Sheila wouldn’t allow me to date a boy even if he was only fifteen—I mean sixteen, like I am, you see. They simply understood there was a greater need to get over the past than to talk about it. The discussion wandered, and was punctuated with bread and butter. Better even than these. Whether it was the nun’s habit or the harlot’s clothing that distressed her more, he could not begin to guess.
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