“I’m six hundred and forty-eight, John, but guess how old I look? Fifteen. In any event, I would not have let her escape me so easily. But it was of no avail. ‘Gérard—’ ‘What now?’ he asked, rife with suspicion. 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.
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