‘Yes, dear Nan, a flirtation. And I’ve read, and thought, and guessed, and looked—until MY innocence—it’s smirched. “It’s just that he doesn’t seem like your type. Left to Capting Roding, as he told me hisself, you’d be in prison this moment. Wood, glancing angrily at her husband. Sir Rowland," he added, in a deep whisper, "do you agree to my terms?" "I do," answered Trenchard, in the same tone. “Let’s go.
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