She went to a writing-desk and made some memoranda on a sheet of note-paper, and then remembered that she had no address as yet to which letters could be sent. ” She replied gently. ‘Nevertheless, he will neither help me, nor will I seek his help. Their heads touched again, their arms tightened. But seriously ——” “Well seriously?” “Isn’t it your own fault a little? Why do you not tell me your address, and allow me to call upon you. She patted John's head with her palm, its surface appealingly fuzzy. linked image back linked image back MADEMOISELLE AT ARMS Elizabeth Bailey © 2011 by Elizabeth Bailey All rights reserved.
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