‘Well she does,’ insisted Miss Froxfield impenitently, and turned to Gerald. The last thing that she remembered was her eyes crossing as she tried to focus upon the crunch of leaves as she lay heaving upon them, dampening them further with the outpouring of her sweat as it leaked from her clothing. Are you going to write a novel?” “Not I,” she answered gaily. She leaned over and kissed his cheek innocently.
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