Fine woman, Lady Trafford—a little on the wane though. To think of him as loving her would make all that different. . Furiously, she dashed his hands away. Her little white hand stole across the table. Perhaps I ought not to; but this isn't a case to fiddle-faddle over. The fellow swore lustily, in a voice which Jack instantly recognised as that of Quilt Arnold, and vainly attempted to rise and draw his sword.
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