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Summary
Ory presses Hilda’s leg to the bed at an uncomfortable angle, as cruel and as easy as pinning a butterfly wing to a spreading board. She holds her there by the soft flesh of her inner thigh, hand snaking beneath her petticoat. Hilda is flexible, but she fusses all the same.
“You’re worse than her. She just reads to me when she makes me cry.”
Ory scoffs. “You suggested it. I’ve only brought Wells’ papers on zoological retrogression anyways. You wouldn’t want to hear it.”