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My Secret LifeHungry and tired she was when she did get home. She hated sitting in the shop parlour or the kitchen, she liked serving in the shop, but was glad when her mother let her go to her aunt's, or to chapel. — They were very pious chapel people, seemingly. With that fine perception in all sexual matters which I know I have, I caught at her remarks about her sister having got into trouble, — Something whispered to me — “Cunt” — Trouble to her mother? — “Cunt.” — “What was your sister's trouble?” I asked. Winifred saw with the cunning of a female that she had said too much, her loquacity ceased, and she began to evade and equivocate. She didn't know what, but had heard her mother say so — but it was all right now — and so on. — “You're fibbing, my little darling, you do know. — Perhaps she's had a foolish lover, who foolishly got her a baby, when he needn't, they might have had all their pleasure without that.” — “Oh — oh — what a thing to say. — I don't know what you mean.” It was just the time for telling her what I meant, for it was getting dark, the lamps were lighted, and I could clearly see her pretty face for the moment as we passed them. — So I told her what I thought of Lydia, and in voluptuous words, and for the first time said “cunt, prick, fuck,” that trinity of words which conveys all, expresses all — I had never said them on the night before, but had used suggestive words, as my thing — your belly, and so on — simple words which nevertheless set the brain thinking, and the body lusting, yet do not scare. — At every baudy sentence, at every suggestion, she now only said. “Ho — ho,” and at last burst into screaming laughter ...» |
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