And if the woman is not a rival, she must be—yes, that must be it. ‘Bon. With a finger crooked in his side-pocket, she measured her step with his, her senses still dizzy from the echo of the magic sounds. She was almost tempted to tell him, if only to see the cracks of surprise and incredulity break the immobility of his yellow countenance. His fingers slipped under the collar of her linen shift and he tore it open with a swipe.
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