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Don’t leave me. It’s these damned novels. A militiaman came belting down the stairs, another leapt from outside the front door, and a third, stalwart and stolid, came in through the door that led to the rooms to the front of the house. Something like a snarl crossed his face, and ignoring the pistol, he moved forward, seizing her shoulders. Her belly was being touched, she felt her thighs caressed softly. I’m not a bit afraid of anything—scandal, difficulty, struggle.
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