“Ninety-eight!” I cried out, suddenly. I was startled to hear my own voice.

“Ninety-eight!” I cried out, suddenly. I was startled to hear my own voice.
The girl lifted her head, dully.
“Ninety-eight, I have ninety-eight,” called the auctioneer.
“Do I hear more? Do I hear more?”
There was silence.
“I prepare to close my hand,” said the auctioneer. “I close my hand!”

I owned Miss Henderson.

Rogue of Gor, p. 128

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