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Your laugh reminds me of—of——" "Whose, Sir?" demanded Jackson, becoming suddenly grave. The air was sweet with the perfume of flowers, and the melody of murmuring insects, the blue sky was cloudless, the heat of the sun was tempered by the heather-scented west wind. And Mr. Montague Hill. She began to want to lay her head down on his chest but absolutely denied herself. They sat in the windowed booth at the restaurant across from each other. But a middle-aged man like Ramage ought to know better than to draw out a girl, the daughter of a friend and neighbor. I’ll kill you, Sheila, and I’ll kill her too.
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