Pritish

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I looked at her again. She lay still now, her face pale against the pillow, her eyes large and dark and empty as rain barrels in a drought. One of her small five-fingered thumbless hands picked at the cover restlessly. There was a vague glimmer of doubt starting to get born in her somewhere. She didn't know about it yet. It's so hard for women — even nice women — to realize that their bodies are not irresistible.
The Big Sleep (Philip Marlowe #1)
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