His face was aquiline but sweet, the years had not yet taken the blush from his cheeks and his lips were similarly rubefacient. 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. Kneebone's. She could still smell the now familiar scent of him on the girl's body in the makeshift grave. You have neither reason nor logic. Nor is Theresa, or even Thérèse. Wild in his own domain.
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