His face was aquiline but sweet, the years had not yet taken the blush from his cheeks and his lips were similarly rubefacient. How fortunate that she recognises the resemblance. The note-passer lagged behind with her. It was debauching, this—a devilish art which drew such strange allurements from a face and figure almost Madonna-like in their simplicity. ‘A spitfire, ain’t she, sir?’ Roding ignored this.
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