“Who tied this scarf here?” he asked, looking up. Make no promises on a night where I have burdened you with such awful knowledge. I am really in earnest. He’s really hot. ’ ‘She’s as clothheaded as you,’ Roding retorted, but he slipped an arm about the lady’s waist and gave her a quick squeeze. ‘I thought—I thought I saw my—my husband. He deserves none. As she did so, the ruffles to the jacket of her riding habit fell away, exposing livid blue bruises about her wrist, ugly in the light of day from the window at their back. His ideas about girls and women were of a sentimental and modest quality; they were creatures, he thought, either too bad for a modern vocabulary, and then frequently most undesirably desirable, or too pure and good for life. He left the room, presumably to sleep elsewhere, but the only other room with a fire was the servant’s quarters.
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