But it strikes me there's a nigger in the woodpile somewhere, as you Yankees say. When I examined you for ‘ill humors’ I longed to run my hands over your entire body, to touch your face, to caress you in the places that would give you pleasure. Those who lived outside the law might squabble among themselves, even unto death, Leonardo told her. “Touch a hair on his head and you will insure that I will never make love to you again.
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