Her anger died and she eyed him. Well, I've had to be. He’s a prig to the finger-tips, is Sir John—doesn’t know what an artist is. He kissed her neck, moving down to her breasts, trying to consume her with passion. Her brown curls were pulled tight in a severe chignon. Her fingers found the lump she sought and, with a little effort, she dragged out the black-wrapped foil. 1.
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