A familiar ache of wanting made itself more insistent in her belly. “Touch a hair on his head and you will insure that I will never make love to you again. “It is possible,” Courtlaw said, “that you too were deceived. Three times he uttered a phrase: "A djinn in a blue-serge coat!" And each time he would follow it with a chuckle—the chuckle of a soul in damnation. Had he been listening inside? ‘What is amiss?’ ‘That Frenchie, sir.
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