“Everything will follow,” she said. “Call it warning, if you like. But I sent him the longest way about. After all, the Wastrel was in luck: he was alone. The same pale white buttocks, the same freckles in the same unchanging patterns on her collarbone that all of her mother’s potions had never been able to erase. Then most horribly she was clasped about the waist from behind and lifted from the ground. He was really very proud of her, and extraordinarily angry and resentful at the innocent and audacious selfreliance that seemed to intimate her sense of absolute independence of him, her absolute security without him.
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