Capes was an exceptionally fair man of two or three-and-thirty, so ruddily blond that it was a mercy he had escaped light eyelashes, and with a minor but by no means contemptible reputation of his own. She slid her cheek down the tweed sleeve of his coat. “Love should be enough, John, but it never is. ‘Here she is. I say again, grace à vous. “No, no,” she cried. Wild's orders.
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