He met her eyes with his fiery black gaze. ‘I must, for that the pig has already gone to monsieur le baron. Of course. Wood, in a whisper, as he filled a rummer to the brim, not to forget the health of the Chevalier de Saint George—a proposition to which the lady immediately responded by drinking the toast aloud. And if the woman is not a rival, she must be—yes, that must be it.
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