With the extra seventy-five pounds she had put after birthing her final son, Steven, her knees weren’t in good shape to be running up and down stairs all day. “Thank you,” she said coolly. Darrell attempted to reply. But it was of no avail. And, now, to find a messenger. I have never been wrong about the sex of an unborn child. Her belly was being touched, she felt her thighs caressed softly. A moistened velvet touch found her tongue.
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