He would never be able to compose upon it, but it would serve to produce the finished work. Why, then, did he touch it? As he climbed heavily into his chair, she was able to note the little beads of sweat under the cracked nether lip. ‘I can take care of myself, bête. What are you after?’ ‘But my pistol and dagger, imbecile,’ she exclaimed impatiently, moving sharply back.
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