He had invited himself to dine with her merely to watch her table manners. His deduction was correct that the beauty of Ruth Enschede could not remain hidden long even on a forgotten isle. Things happen out this way. He seemed inexorable, and inscrutable as fate itself. He had meant to be master of his fate that evening and it had escaped him altogether. Even he was not oblivious to it, and after about two minutes of awkward French kissing, he pulled away. ‘I’ll play you at your own game,’ he growled, holding the foreshortened foil in place with rigid control.
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