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“Because I hate you!” She spat. He looked the boy over with interest. ‘How could I know that it is you?’ She peered at him in the darkness. His literary instincts began to stir. To lose was death, quickly and mercilessly delivered. Kneebone was attired in the extremity of the mode. He devoured her with his eyes too, his shyness not able to disguise his furtive glances at the curvy outline of her breast against the imitation silk, his memory still exquisitely tortured by her movements in the miniskirt. Melusine sighed with relief and set to work by the light of the lantern.
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