He had only to recall this fact (which he did in each crisis) to erect a barrier she could not go around or over. In one hand she carried a long-stalked red rose, dripping with dew, in the other the post-bag. ‘What would you do in Valade’s place?’ ‘You mean, knowing that the girl was here and liable to queer my pitch?’ ‘Precisely. Burn your palette and your easel. His face, as he looked down where his hand sought for a weapon concealed in her petticoat, was so close that she could see only the line of his firm jaw, the drag of his powdered hair that drew it into the military pigtail, and the black ribbon that adorned it.
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