Having accomplished his intent, Gerald let the lad go and had himself driven back to Stratton Street. His noble Florentine roots went back a thousand years, to the days of grand Rome herself. Shall I send him to Sir John?” Annabel was white to the lips, but her anger was not yet spent. I am not afraid that you may try to make love to me. She slid her cheek down the tweed sleeve of his coat. “Really,” she said. "Every inch of it," replied the woollen-draper.
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