‘But we—mon mari and myself—we have the bonne chance. It was a moment or two before Gerald, opening his eyes on the girl’s astounded expression, recollected himself sufficiently to pull out of the extraordinary impact she’d had on him. "Miss Enschede, you're seven kinds of a brick!" "A brick?" He chuckled. Her faithful servant struggled, with her assistance, to rise. The prostitute’s attack was predictable, typical.
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