“But, forgive me, you are tired. Yeah, I’m thirty-seven. But the recollection of the warm pliant body in his arms …! "I am a thief!" he whispered. ‘Oh, Jacques, I cannot forgive myself!’ ‘Never you fret, miss,’ he uttered at once in a faint voice. Only the next of kin. ’ Abruptly, the niggling doubt that had been plaguing Lord Charvill came sweeping to the surface. Her head ached with a hollow pain. The applause was uproarious at the end of the concert.
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