To him she had always appeared as a mere pleasure-loving parasite—something quite insignificant. ‘The fact of it is,’ I said, ‘I’m the new playwright, Thomas More. The windows were grated, the doors barred; each room had the name as well as the appearance of a cell; and the very porter who stood at the gate, habited like a jailer, with his huge bunch of keys at his girdle, his forbidding countenance and surly demeanour seemed to be borrowed from Newgate. She won’t be a problem from now on. He fondled her naked breasts with his fingers, then his mouth. A dissipated, loose-living man. It seems to me exactly what is wanted. They're gone into the next room. Explain to Sir John our feelings. You’re not to go.
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