Their faces were masks of abject horror, sunken and shriveled, their cheekbones protruding. As she did so, the ruffles to the jacket of her riding habit fell away, exposing livid blue bruises about her wrist, ugly in the light of day from the window at their back. She could still remember herself at age five, staring knives and daggers at the men who came into the small yarn shop, under pretense of business but really just to leer. Book. . Smith will tell you I'm misinformed, also, on that point.
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