As for Mike’s observations on John’s desires to get laid, it was the pot calling the kettle black. As she did so, the ruffles to the jacket of her riding habit fell away, exposing livid blue bruises about her wrist, ugly in the light of day from the window at their back. ‘Now what?’ The guard jerked his head up the corridor. "You hay'n't hurt your arm, I trust, my dear?" he added, anxiously.
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