As she came close, he took a pace forward and seized her from behind, one strong arm clamping her tight against his chest, the free hand seizing her about the mouth, stifling the cry that gurgled in her throat. This key," he added, taking it from the boy, "was purloined from me by your father, Jack. The Wastrel did not relish this. His face changed and she saw, with a stab at her heart, the dawning of irritation in his eyes. If it is that I am in the least French, and that you do not like it—’ ‘I don’t like it,’ snapped the old man. “Why not?” “Because you are mine.
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