She met the keen grey eyes of a clean-shaven man, between forty and fifty, quietly dressed in professional attire. If only there had not been this single torturing thought—a mere pin-prick, but still curiously persistent. They thought that she was her own mother. He seemed to her indistinguishably about her father’s age. She was too wrapped up in the sheer joy of playing again; it had 201 been intimate, masturbatory.
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