. . ’ ‘Lord,’ Gerald murmured, awed more by the outspokenness of his hostess than by what she had said. He pulled on his pants, his yellow shirt with the ridiculous horse logo, his brown socks, and shoes. What matters it? My servant, he is wounded—and by a Frenchman, if you wish to make an arrest. Wood, with a look meant to reduce her supposed rival to the dust. Their idea of maidenly innocence was just a blank white—the sort of flat white that doesn’t shine.
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