The likelihood is that I shan’t see the wench again. Mr. Michelle moaned and Lucy, unable to help herself, stroked her hair. He did not know—and probably never would unless she told him—that it was very easy (and comfortable for a woman) to fall into slatternly ways in this latitude. She stared at him. Her heart was beating with quite unaccustomed vigour, her hands were hot, she was conscious of a warmth in her blood which the summer sunshine was scarcely responsible for. I’ve made an ally of her champion.
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