The Anarchist. Tristan Hawkins
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‘Come upstairs.’
‘Why, Sherry?’
‘Because I’ve come home to … to, well, make love to you.’
‘Oh no you have not. I’ve got tons, simply tons, to do.’
‘Like what?’
‘Cleaning, cooking. You know. That sort of thing.’
‘My darling, it can wait.’
‘Oh no. Oh no, Sherry. Certainly not. Besides, the Unspeakably Behaved could come back on one of her revision periods. No, no. You sit down and have a cup of tea.’
‘Ah, that tried and tested method of contraception. One of Jennifer Entwhistle’s cups of tea.’ He wrapped an arm around her middle and kissed her cheek. She didn’t resist. Nor did she succumb.
‘Sherry,’ she said calmly. ‘It really is out of the question. In the first instance we’d have to draw the curtains. It would be like raising a flag for the residents. Besides …’
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