Her hands wove through his black hair, luxuriating in its thickness. “Perhaps,” she said, “it is the London climate. 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. “I’m thirsty. Something has happened to change her marvellously, either that, or she wilfully deceived me and every one else in those days as to her real self.
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