She went on her way now no longer dreaming and appreciative, but disturbed and unwillingly observant behind her mask of serene contentment. She was young and bright, little to no make-up except for lip-gloss, long, straight, glossy reddish blonde hair slightly past her shoulders. The weed was all right. “I have spoken too many truths to-night. ” “But it is too late,” she declared. She felt sickeningly empty. " Sir Rowland bit his lips to repress the answer that rose to them. A pretty name for a pretty girl.
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