‘Dieu du ciel, for what do you take me?’ ‘I don’t know,’ he threw at her. Lucy's ears were singing. They were a dull grey, but the dark frizzed hair that framed her face was attractive. He pressed his lips to her with a much greater force than she had anticipated. Her cheeks seemed to burn, her veins ran riot, and her heart was beating so fast that she was sure he must feel it through his scarlet coat. As to the picture, I'll keep it myself, though, if you do go I shall need no memorial of you.
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