He was the beachcomber, or the old sailor with the black pearl (Ruth's tales), or the wastrel musician McClintock had described to him. All the world about her seemed to be—how can one put it?—in wrappers, like a house when people leave it in the summer. ’ A grimace crossed her face. Until he felt a sharpness digging into his coat at the point of his heart. linked image back linked image back MADEMOISELLE AT ARMS Elizabeth Bailey © 2011 by Elizabeth Bailey All rights reserved.
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