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Sometimes I think she’s tired of us. She fought him with tooth and nail. Some of your sex, I mean. And there arose too, a background of shouts. Her father held some printed document in his hand, and appeared not to observe her entry. He wore a battered sunhelmet, a loin-cloth and a pair of dilapidated canvas shoes. Was it a week ago? No, perhaps more. ‘You damned little fool! How dared you steal my sword?’ Her eyes flew open. Sir John was not used to such glances, and he liked them.
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