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’ She bit her lip, but her eyes betrayed her. His countenance was pale as death, but not a muscle quivered; nor did he betray the slightest appearance of fear. He rolled on top of her, pinning her with his arms and forming a tented cage. ” Michelle said sassily. How can he help you?” She threw such a look upon him that even he, Sir John Ferringhall, carpetmerchant, hide-bound Englishman, slow-witted, pompous, deliberate, felt his heart beat to music. Part of his head was swathed in linen bandages. ” “Act two,” she continued.
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