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He pushed her small hand into his jeans. His kind eyes were puffy with fatigue. ‘Dolt! Muttonheaded oaf! Why the deuce couldn’t he have sent you home?’ Valade cut in at that. You're luck. Not only that, but he is here in London. “Stop,” he said. Lost from all protection, all her family dead—as are mine. Yet the smoke was curling upwards in a faint innocent-looking cloud to the ceiling.
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