. . I'm not interested in him. There is so little abandon, so little real joyousness. ‘That’s what started the fracas,’ Gerald admitted ruefully, nursing his injured hand as he recalled it. Wood having laid hold of the canvass-bag. I knew it. She gathered her black purse, a pointless thing made of cardboard covered in sateen and bejeweled with an assortment of rhinestones. Her wings were oddly weak, but for all that she could fly.
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