C. Mr. Something like a snarl crossed his face, and ignoring the pistol, he moved forward, seizing her shoulders. He had a handsome, jolly-looking face; stood six feet two in his stockings; and measured more than a cloth-yard shaft across the shoulders—athletic proportions derived from his father the dragoon. Do you want me, too?” “Yes,” she whispered foolishly, in the throes of rapture.
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