He squatted and threw his arm around the backs of her knees. The houses loomed progressively larger as one strode up the block, growing from ranch to two-story, from squat 1950's modern to stately 1890's palace. “Is that so? Who says?” He demanded, his eyebrows arching as he looked at her with puerile glee. Ramage did not know. What more could any reasonable man— especially a watchman—desire? Besides, the Marquis, is a devilish fine fellow, and a particular friend of mine. She despises me, I suppose.
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