He was a London man of business, spending a small legacy in Paris. “Thank you, Martin,” she replied graciously. Shari squealed, clutching her towel around her. It was his heart. “I wonder,” he said, “how you would like to be made love to—boldly or timorously or sentimentally. At the expiration of an hour, by dint of unremitting exertion, he had made so large a breach in the chimney, that he could stand upright in it.
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