"Lor' ha' mussy, Sir!—how you do talk," said the woman; "this is no robber, I'm sure. But somehow he could not bring any of these affairs to an orderly end. She saw herself begin a slow, sinuous dance: and stop suddenly in the middle of a figure, conscious that the dance was not impromptu, her own, but native—the same dance she had quitted but a few minutes gone. Whatever happened she need never return to that possibility. She felt scrawny, lanky, badly dressed in a baggy black T-shirt, sweaty, not at all beautiful; not even pretty. I know something about men.
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