” “But you thought you could forget him. Certainly, there wasn't a thing in the pockets. ” She smiled at him, an understanding smile, but her words defied him. Diedermeyer, sweetheart? He just went in. So often as she had herself manipulated a dagger, she could not mistake the shape that pressured across her chest, or the sharp point that dug below her bosom. "One of us has got to die," he panted. "Miss Enschede, you're seven kinds of a brick!" "A brick?" He chuckled.
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