Sir John, who was standing outside, looked past him at the girl still sitting in the shadow. For a space he rode the whirligig. Ashen blonde, a shade that would never excite the cynical commentary which men applied to certain types of blondes. “We are, or rather we were, so much alike then that the portrait of either of us would have done for the other. And I’d do it again for you if needs be.
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