It was Annabel who spoke. I want you to be my lover. Her fingers closed upon it instinctively. Brown engaged in the usual browbeating and complaining he reserved for sections who came in late and soloists who left tempo behind like the leftovers of a Sunday picnic. Her name, he said, was as pretty as its wearer. The picture might easily apply to The Tigress: outwardly disreputable, but richly and comfortably appointed below.
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