She slipped on a white clingy imitation silk tee-shirt, a sexy number that Shari had bought on super-sale at the Limited. Too late she realised that Emile was not trying to escape. Ramage pursed his rather loose lips and shrugged his shoulders, with his eyes fixed steadily upon her. “You are not going out—this evening, I trust,” that lady asked, a trifle dismayed. You take them. The moral right of the author has been asserted.
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