‘It had better not be, by God,’ had barked Captain Hilary Roding. Paris, 18. The door to the room in question was closed. I—I am a lovesick idiot, and not accountable for my actions. So I come round the other way and—Lordy, miss, I’m that sorry I made a mull of it. Even when you've a knave to deal with, let your actions be plain, and above-board. She hated being angry, the uselessness of it all, the frustration.
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