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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. Montague Hill. She could not move. Her feathered hat fell from her head and down her back, and she felt fingers writhing in the mass of her hair and caressing the flesh of her neck beneath so that she shivered uncontrollably. She declined and finished with a few of her favorite excerpts from Scheherazade. ‘You damned little fool! How dared you steal my sword?’ Her eyes flew open.
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