‘A spitfire, ain’t she, sir?’ Roding ignored this. She ran her gaze over him, and allowed her eyelashes to flutter down. “Nigel, Nigel,” she cried. This is not true at all. He must be a sly fox to get out of the Mint without my knowledge. A bad one in a rough-and-tumble; all the water-front tricks. Indignation carried her through that night, that men and the world could so entreat her.
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