She is no longer mine; she is yours. Any natural fineness would be numbed by drink. I know why. It will serve you out if I give her dagger back to mademoiselle, so that she can plunge it right into your chest. But a middle-aged man like Ramage ought to know better than to draw out a girl, the daughter of a friend and neighbor. The girl stood with her hands behind her back, sulky, resolute, and intelligent, a strand of her black hair over one eye and looking more than usually delicate-featured, and more than ever like an obdurate child. Mike seemed visibly happier at her remark.
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