Tell me, Sir," he added, advancing towards the knight, "tell me has this man spoken falsely?— Tell me my mother is alive, and do what you please with me. There was no such a thing as perfection in a mixed world. He devoured her with his eyes too, his shyness not able to disguise his furtive glances at the curvy outline of her breast against the imitation silk, his memory still exquisitely tortured by her movements in the miniskirt. This whole affair is truly my fault. After all, he had the means of setting this tormenting doubt at rest.
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