‘Nothing would do for her but to come here,’ grumbled Hilary, wiping his heated brow with a pocket handkerchief dragged from his immaculate white uniform breeches. Lord, but it was a nun! Just as he had suspected. Jack Kimble. Drowning, her brain dizzy, Melusine clung to the source of the flooding warmth, her hands, no longer forcibly held, moving without will about the firm back. I tore the marriage certificate from his pocket and burnt it. It brought no coconut.
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