‘I’m only a poor country wench, child. Turning, she flew for the nearest door. The taste of his sweat was intoxicating, like sweet brandy, like blood. " But Spurlock put up his guard. " "Leave you!" echoed the ruffian, with a contemptuous laugh; "—not just yet. But, alas! she was beautiful—and beauty is a crime not to be forgiven by a jealous woman. .
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