As for Mike’s observations on John’s desires to get laid, it was the pot calling the kettle black. ‘Forgive my not rising to greet you,’ she said, holding out a claw-like hand. “Don’t you know, child, that this is torture for me? What in God’s name more can you have to tell me?” Her face had become almost like a marble image. His brute strength surged through her veins, she could feel his energy in her heart, his life force stolen like candy from a baby.
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