Her lips came together with an expression between contentment and the faintest shadow of a smile, her manner was one of quiet reserve, and behind this mask she was wildly discontented and eager for freedom and life. “I think,” she said, “that I would rather not have anything to say about that man. His demeanour then was sober enough to lend colour to that belief. "Miss Enschede, you're seven kinds of a brick!" "A brick?" He chuckled. “So am I. ” Her heart leaped within her as she caught that phrase. .
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