“You wouldn’t. She would be enduing this chap with attributes he did not possess, clothing him in fictional ruffles. She had had to do away with many a leering foster father since she had started frequenting foster homes in the middle of the century. With his black and gray hair, his gray-green eyes were a striking contrast and he looked even younger, as if he had been frozen at age thirty-three. . . “Go on!” “You know—in Paris they coupled my name with some one’s—an Englishman’s. His face, as he looked down where his hand sought for a weapon concealed in her petticoat, was so close that she could see only the line of his firm jaw, the drag of his powdered hair that drew it into the military pigtail, and the black ribbon that adorned it.
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