If hate could kill, Ramage would have been killed by a flash of hate. ‘For God’s sake, let go my hand,’ he begged. His stories had enchanted her, even if in some deep corner of her heart she guessed they were not entirely true. She was a small blonde, not handsome, but with a flair for fashion demonstrated by her elegant chemise gown in the very latest Canterbury muslin, with its low décolletage barely concealed under a fine lawn handkerchief set about her shoulders, and decorated with a mauve satin sash at the waist. ” He stuttered.
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