
"Well, I guess that's all right, Mrs. Benson," Annabelle Jackson said hesitantly. She looked around the library as if somebody might overhear her. It was quiet, late Friday afternoon and there weren't many people around.
"Oh, call me Hilary, please," the woman on the other end of the phone cooed. "It's so good of you to do this for me. You've got the address? Good. Sexual Repression in the Nineteenth Century, I need it for a paper I'm doing.
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