Dieu du ciel, but where was Gerald? On the move again, she found herself standing before one of the mirrors, gazing into her own countenance without seeing it. The Enschede Bible—the one out of which she read—had been strangely mutilated. Her knees shook, her breath came fast, she almost felt the lurid effect of those tiny patches of rouge upon her pallor-stricken cheeks. ‘I am not French in the least, bête. I don’t want to Bowdlerize Shakespeare.
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