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‘Babette, what sort of trouble are you in? Are we in?’ ‘I’m so sorry, Didi. About all this. But I can’t stop now. The clothes … they have stolen my heart. Feel!’ And she took hold of my hand and placed it on her plum-coloured waistcoat. The material was dermatoid. It palpitated beneath my touch, its sensory fibres relaying a voluptuous message through a peripheral nervous system that was hardwired to Babette’s own. She sighed. ‘The allure, Didi …’
— Richard Calder, The Allure ‎· were singular together
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