He kissed her at the door. Her white shirt was ridiculously utilitarian, but fitted in all the right places, he smirked. He glanced at Ruth (who had stood with her back to the wall, pinned there throughout the contest by terror and the knowledge of her own helplessness), then at the bronze menace, and calculated correctly that this particular adventure was finished. ‘I’m only a poor country wench, child. “If you say so, Lucy. The little matter of an accent may be misleading, I grant you, but —’ He was interrupted, and with impatience.
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