Her secret thoughts made some hasty, half-hearted excursions into the possibility of telling the thing in romantic tones—Ramage was as a black villain, she as a white, fantastically white, maiden. Or was that perhaps because his business in Piccadilly the other day had gone awry? Perhaps Brewis Charvill had not welcomed him with open arms. She reeled in excitement, she unzipped his pants while kissing him, trying not to let herself stop touching him as she unclothed him. "Mac, you old son-of-a-gun!" "Got a man's breakfast?" McClintock demanded to know. Drink the toast, Jack.
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