Their soft, voluptuous bodies wove among each other to the faint notes of a lyre. "I can," replied Trenchard. “It isn’t a joke,” she said. His eyes were bright, and his voice had in it an unaccustomed timbre. He fell backwards on his butt, the wind knocked out of him. “Called myself Anna,” the girl repeated coolly. But her mind was ruffled, and its mirror-like surface of satisfaction was not easily restored.
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