She felt her skills make a belated return. They drove around town that night in his Buick convertible. Shotbolt, who had in some degree recovered from the effects of his previous mortification, was thrown into an ecstacy of delight, and could not sufficiently exult over the prisoner. No more did she offer her forehead for the good-night kiss. There was no marriage, and I hated, oh, how I hated the man.
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