83 She stared at his crazily erect penis, mentally comparing it to Gianfrancesco’s. She had been obliged to spend the night in that fateful bedchamber, the faithful Kimble—who had foraged at a nearby inn, bringing back a large pie and a jug of porter for his mistress—guarding the door outside. At last in a street near the Hampstead Road she hit upon a room that had an exceptional quality of space and order, and a tall woman with a kindly face to show it. The grate was full of fluttering ashes of burnt paper, and the easy chair near the fire had evidently been used. Melusine whirled.
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