He reminds me of a slave I once had in Rome with those sullen dark eyes and that wistful pout. But you belong to me—and I want you. “The Widgetts,” she said. Forgetting the dark thoughts of his last brush with the girl, he dropped the dagger back in his pocket, quickened his pace, and went back into the house to look for his hostess. He listened to the thunder of the fall now mingling with the roar of the blast; and, driven almost frantic by what he heard and saw, he pushed with all his force against the stone. But her temper almost flared again when the sergeant spoke.
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