At a little after five, on that day, four horses dashed round the corner of the Old Bailey, and drew up before the door of the Lodge. He devoured her with his eyes too, his shyness not able to disguise his furtive glances at the curvy outline of her breast against the imitation silk, his memory still exquisitely tortured by her movements in the miniskirt. She went down, feeling rather than seeing the way. As she approached, the carpenter's wife eyed her from head to foot, in the hope of finding something in her person or apparel to quarrel with.
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