Wood. ‘The fact of it is,’ I said, ‘I’m the new playwright, Thomas More. We quickly drew up the documentation and made living arrangements for you and I. “Why won’t you sleep in my bed tonight, Lucia, where 80 it’s warm?” He asked her one night, teasing but mournful, as she stood in her bedroom doorway in a long white gown. “You remember our first meeting?” “Yes,” he answered hoarsely.
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