It might have been the moon, or the phosphorescence of the broken water, or it might have been his abysmal loneliness; but suddenly he caught her face in his hands and kissed her on the mouth. It was a fetching gown that stretched tightly in a cream colored swath over her breasts and expanded to a full skirt with a petticoat. ‘A spitfire, ain’t she, sir?’ Roding ignored this. Nobody toys with me. But then you're an adopted son, and that makes all the difference.
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