![]() "What got into him? Or more to the point, what got into me, to let him turn my bar into this backslapping media circus?" Murray Ryerson was too good a reporter to prostitute himself like this. I knew the man and liked him, which made me squirm at his expression, a kind of fawning joviality. I resolutely refused to look at the wall on my right, where her head was flung back as she laughed at the witticisms of the man in the chair opposite. I turned around, only to see her again, red hair artlessly tangled, breasts still thrust forward, as she accepted the Hasty Pudding award from a crowd of Harvard men. It was too much emotion for me at close quarters. ![]() Tendrils of red hair escaped from her cap with her eyes shut and her forehead furrowed she seemed to have crossed the line from agony to ecstasy. ![]() Lacey Dowell clutched her crucifix, milky breasts thrust forward, as she backed away from her unseen assailant. ![]()
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