He gave a deep, resonant sigh. A sigh clearly meant to pluck at her heartstrings. And it worked. It really worked. “Sweet heaven.” She swallowed back a lump in her throat. “You must do this all the time. Night after night, you tell women your tale of woe . . .” “Not really. The tale of woe precedes me.” “ . . . and then they just open their arms and lift their skirts for you. ‘Come, you poor, sweet man, let me hold you’ and so forth. Don’t they?” He hedged. “Sometimes.” Minerva knew they did. They must. She felt it happening to her. As he’d related his story, a veritable fount of emotion had
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