She was feeling extraordinarily well that night, so that the sense of her body was a deep delight, a realization of a gentle warmth and strength and elastic firmness. “It’s just that he doesn’t seem like your type. ” Courtlaw laughed hardly. “Annabel,” she said, “you are my sister, or I would bid you take the flowers if you care for them, and leave the room. Take, if you please, your own pistol.
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