Today, as a result, you write lurid novels for women with 窶話eefcake窶 cover art.
You gave of yourself to all until the the livery boy gave you, in return, a popular disease of the period. After some extended suffering you returned to the earth from which you were created.
You were once a young woman of fine features and easy virtue. This is, perhaps, in 18th century England.
The voices of the past whisper to me... You appear before me as though a stranger.
