The prostitute’s attack was predictable, typical. For a time she looked at no more apartments, and walked through gaunt and ill-cleaned streets, through the sordid under side of life, perplexed and troubled, ashamed of her previous obtuseness. She paced restlessly to the door and back again, biting her tongue on the hot words begging to be uttered. Herculis was a port city on the Tyrrhenian Sea not far from where the manor had been.
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