" "What is it?" asked Thames. She offers me no explanation, permits me absolutely no hope. What a girl of sixteen cares for is hair and a high color and moonlight and a tenor voice. I do not choose the vicomte, for that would be foolish. . It is no fault of your own that you are not at this moment standing there with your head blown off. She is like some character out of Phra the Phoenician: she's been buried for thirty years and just been excavated.
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