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So many things she saw that her interest stumbled rather than leaped from object to object. On Monday Charvill had still not returned, and the major duly presented himself at Mrs Chalkney’s house in Grosvenor Square, thanking his stars that his friend Roding would not be there to spoil sport. “It was inevitable,” he declared. Loving was better than that. What he needed was not a food but a flavour; and the cocoanut taste of the chestnuts soothed his burning tongue and throat. Fire; she was full of it.
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