“I cannot say more. The gun flew from his hand, clacking on the floor. What matters it? My servant, he is wounded—and by a Frenchman, if you wish to make an arrest. She closed her eyes and felt again an echo of the swamping warmth that had attacked her when his lips met hers. Somebody to whom she would be necessary, who for days would have to depend upon her for the needs of life. Clarice rubbed her belly, singing songs to the unborn baby.
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