A brief feeling of empathy with Pottiswick passed through him. Her father and her husband, who had both been a little pale at their first encounter, were growing now just faintly flushed. 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. He had a flattish, perhaps, it should be called, a flattened nose, and a brown, leathernlooking hide, that seemed as if it had not unfrequently undergone the process of tanning. All human food tasted equally dead and loathsome to her, whether it was prime steak or cheap hamburger. She tried not to pant, not to reveal herself, and she began to shake. Men do services for the love of women, and the woman who takes must pay.
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