” John traced his finger over the meeting point of her breast and her ribcage as they lay naked on his unmade bed. "'T is he!" he mentally ejaculated. “Can I bring you anything, sir—a whisky and soda, or a liqueur? You’ll excuse me, sir, but you haven’t touched your coffee. “Sit down,” he said, and perused—“perused” is the word for it—for some moments. Have I your final answer?" "You have, Sir Rowland," she answered, in a feeble tone, but firmly. I don’t care. “I wouldn’t.
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