She was posing before the mirror, critically, miserably, defensively, and perhaps bewilderedly. “Now,” he said, quietly, “it’s time we stopped this nonsense. I doubt I hold any interest for him anymore. Her fancy dress, save for the green-gray stockings, the pseudo-Turkish slippers, and baggy silk trousered ends natural to a Corsair’s bride, was hidden in a large black-silk-hooded operacloak. “By Jove!” he said, “there is something direct about you. Easy enough.
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