His attention was focused on Melusine’s transfixed stare and he forgot to say any of the things he had planned to say. She felt conscious of her nipples becoming visibly erect under the tight t-shirt and wished that she owned a thicker brassiere. His countenance was pale as death, but not a muscle quivered; nor did he betray the slightest appearance of fear. "My name is Ruth Enschede. She practiced swaddling on a doll, pretending to pat the head of her imaginary infant boy.
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