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The taste of his sweat was intoxicating, like sweet brandy, like blood. Her cheeks were aflame. She gave tongue to the most urgent of her plaints. "His life—or yours?" "No one shall harm you more, my dear," cried Lady Trafford. If I am to die in the attempt, then so be it. Kneebone," she added, with a glance at that gentleman, which was meant to speak daggers, "will do as he pleases. White?” she asked, laughing. I was sorry for what I did afterwards; for, I don't know why, but, poor, lady! with her pale face, and black eyes, she reminded me of my mother. Lose no time.
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