” “Why not?” She turned on him. “I think you are getting to understand me better. “You’re not a man for me—not one of a sex, I mean. Her hands wove through his black hair, luxuriating in its thickness. But calmer thoughts quickly succeeded. "Restore it," he cried, in an authoritative voice. She is no longer mine; she is yours. "My heart," rejoined Thames, firmly; "which now tells me I am in the presence of his murderer. Probably a sick man's whim.
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