What am I going to do with ye, Grace? First, ye blacken my eye, and then ye slice me in the thigh." He chuckled. "I bet ye ne'er knew I was a poet, did ye?" When he felt her hand pat him, he chuckled. "Ye cannae get enough of me, can ye?" "Pardon?" "Och, lass. That isnae my thigh.
-Victoria Roberts
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