“Mid-thirties. So often as she had herself manipulated a dagger, she could not mistake the shape that pressured across her chest, or the sharp point that dug below her bosom. ‘There is Bernadette, Marie-Thérèse, Marie-Joséphine, Marie-Claire, Henriette—’ Exasperated, Gerald seized her by the shoulders. He shut his eyes and groped for the wall to steady himself, wondering if this bit of mummery would get over. She would end this sham with Manning. Her fancy dress, save for the green-gray stockings, the pseudo-Turkish slippers, and baggy silk trousered ends natural to a Corsair’s bride, was hidden in a large black-silk-hooded operacloak. “We were bound to do this when you kissed me,” she sobbed through her tears. “Why would she do that? Why does she care? That’s a waste of her time. She seemed to grow more beautiful to him and not the opposite. I get the feeling that you are special, so alone, so beautiful that I must get to the bottom of you if it takes my whole life.
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