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She held the handles of the pitcher, hard, as though for support, as though for a renewed contact with what was solid and real. - (Prize of Gor, Chapter 22, Sentence #452)

She was shocked, she felt weak, her heart beat wildly, she feared her legs would give way beneath her, she was vulnerable, she was stripped, she felt giddy, and feared that she might faint. Never had she expected to see him again! She fought to gain her breath. She tried to stand very steadily. She held the handles of the pitcher, hard, as though for support, as though for a renewed contact with what was solid and real. She trembled in consternation and confusion. It was he who on this world had been her first master, he who on Earth had arranged and executed her straightforward, flawless abduction, he into whose keeping and under whose mastery she had first come, he amongst whose toils she had first found herself inextricably enmeshed, so absolutely, so simply and professionally, so easily, so casually, so helplessly and perfectly, he under whose supervision she with her station, auspices, prestige and credentials had been transformed into no more than a young, shapely, meaningless slave, he who, on this world, had taken the familiar, common name, 'Mirus'! Has he come for me, she thought, wildly. But there was no indication that he even knew she was in the camp. - (Prize of Gor)