The young rascal had learnt from some of the women-servants that Lady Trafford was from home, and was in the very act of making off when I got down stairs. Her whole conduct and tone had been modest and ladylike. “We are only in the dawn of the Age of Friendship,” he said, “when interest, I suppose, will take the place of passions. And it is not at all his affair. She nibbled at his neck gently, sweetly, as her hand tracing his chest.
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