Heaven alone knows why. The palanquin is hired and so is the procession. 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. ‘Mad as hatters!’ ‘It is you who is mad,’ mademoiselle told him crossly. Fame of any sort was folly and she knew better. His hair flew out from the sides of his head like black bats from a belfry, it was unruly and long.
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