His gray eyes were closed, his persimmon-colored lips open and panting. The old-fashioned dress, with its series of ruffles and printed flowers, ballooned treacherously, revealing her well-turned leg in silk stockings, as it snapped against her body as a mould. She reached for the door handle. “Girls. ” “Not long ago,” she said, “you left me in anger, partly because of this exchange of identities between Annabel and myself. ‘Gérard is not mad, only of a disposition entirely interfering. It is different. Spurlock mused over the previous night.
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