"You hear that," cried Mrs. She tried to imagine the collective effect of the Fadden Ball; she had never seen a fancy-dress gathering in her life. " "How!" ejaculated Trenchard, starting back and drawing his sword. She ought to have written at once and told him exactly what had happened. He devoured her with his eyes too, his shyness not able to disguise his furtive glances at the curvy outline of her breast against the imitation silk, his memory still exquisitely tortured by her movements in the miniskirt. Or, better still, put all my clothes in the trunk. It is impossible.
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