The Wastrel—as we call him—cannot play when he's sober; hands too shaky. She wanted him, she needed sex, but the two ideas had not formed an equation where a concrete result could be deduced. The poor boy, whose hands were pinioned behind him, looked very pale, but neither trembled, nor exhibited any other symptom of alarm. The cage has a strong door, with an iron grating at the top, and further secured by a stout bolt and padlock. He—wanted to marry me.
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