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shitting

crevats

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A fortnight ago he had seen her. He had found her. The woman who haunted his dreams and stole his breathe with her very existence. She was another man's wife, dancing and laughing with the Earl of Claffland, his old friend from Cambridge, her husband. As she floated threw the ball room her ebony curls kissing her checks as the sun kissed the dew of the morning spring, her soft ivory skin luminous in its delicacy shined beneath a thousand candles, her dark eyes shimmering truer than any diamond, she was so much more than the weak imitations of his dreams, she was his heart. Did the Earl know of the treasure within his arms?

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