Her two sticks were bare and brown, her snugged canvas drab, her brasses dull, her anchor mottled with rust. ” She stopped. A snarl contorted his features, and he marched up to it, laying his pistol down on the marquetry table so that his hands were free to grab the picture off the wall. She was dressed in a simple evening gown of soft creamy silk, with a yoke of dark old embroidery that enhanced the gentle gravity of her style, and her black hair flowed off her open forehead to pass under the control of a simple ribbon of silver. Until he felt a sharpness digging into his coat at the point of his heart.
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