‘A spitfire, ain’t she, sir?’ Roding ignored this. He felt her relaxation and let go of her wrists. Hardened as he may be, that would touch him. The sun was setting in spectacular multicolored streams beyond Whitefield Park. How she had coveted her mother’s beauty and sought to emulate it, if only to please her. It was filled with sopping lichens and green benches too slimy to sit upon.
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