“If I had three hands,” she said, with a faint smile, “I would give one to each of you. Pottiswick’s daughter found her tongue. Perhaps there were experiences she would never confide to any man. An admirable alternative presented itself and she sighed, spreading her hands. We ourselves have been similarly circumstanced. But then the features changed. . But underneath this tolerance there is always the vague hope that your manhood will someday reassert itself. All the fury had left her, swamped by an inexplicable flood of warmth.
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