‘Hilary, thank God! Have you a pistol about you? Or better yet, your sword. I see that I am a beast—I beg your pardon, bête—and an imbecile, and an idiot. Now what I want you to feel is this. Her hands wove through his black hair, luxuriating in its thickness. Something in her tone made him look up. ‘Idiot!’ ‘Enough, now! Softly, you little termagant,’ he ordered, seizing her wrists to hold her off.
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