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‘This is not love, Marthe. Her father intercepted her, and for a moment she and he struggled with their hands upon the latch. "Whatever you like, Hoddy," she agreed, wiping the sweat from her forehead. ‘Give me my pistol!’ Gerald shook his head, slipping the pistol into his pocket. ’ He strode to the fireplace behind the leather-topped desk and addressed his own reflection in the mirror, wagging an admonitory finger in his own face.
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