Once she reached the bamboo curtain, clutched at it and tore it down as his arms went around her waist. “Perhaps,” he said, “I have been to blame. She slept in a bedroom clad in linens and skins, walked down hallways bedecked in the most gay and colorful frescos. His face was aquiline but sweet, the years had not yet taken the blush from his cheeks and his lips were similarly rubefacient. John knew everybody, it seemed.
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