” John traced his finger over the meeting point of her breast and her ribcage as they lay naked on his unmade bed. " It was curiously like the intermittent murmur of the surf, those weird Sundays, when her father paused for breath to launch additional damnation for those who disobeyed the Word. Their talk drifted to the beauty of music, and they took that up again at tea-time. I have always hated it.
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