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He looked at her, hurt. Run away now, please. They sell only their talents, not their bodies; they are not girls of the street. Lost me place, that’s all. Her scream shook the windows of the sedan. . . ’ ‘But me orders, sir? Are we to—’ ‘Gad, but that’s her,’ interrupted Roding suddenly. She surveyed accommodation that seemed at first merely austere, and became more and more manifestly inadequate as the moments fled by. It was not in evidence here, not a sign of it. Annabel was born soulless, a human butterfly, if ever there was one.
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