Sheila was often a terror to her husband Mark, who seemed afraid of her. She sank upon her knees and unbuttoned his coat. “What a little brick!” he murmured. He had a handsome, jolly-looking face; stood six feet two in his stockings; and measured more than a cloth-yard shaft across the shoulders—athletic proportions derived from his father the dragoon. "She's glorious!" He knew that he must hoodwink this keeneyed Scot, even as he must hoodwink everybody: publicly, the devoted husband; privately, the celibate. He changed his mind however, and simply motioned to her to proceed. I quickly ingratiated myself to Gianfrancesco, playing on his insecurities, drawing from his need for more and more power.
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