‘Don’t look at me like that,’ Martha begged. ’ ‘That,’ said Gosse, ‘is a matter of opinion. Of course, I don't believe she's what you would call flush. "He's not my son," rejoined the carpenter. ‘Beg pardon, miss, but I’m told as how—’ She broke off, her eyes widening, her jaw dropping open. After all, it was really rather funny. Makes you real. Her fancy dress, save for the green-gray stockings, the pseudo-Turkish slippers, and baggy silk trousered ends natural to a Corsair’s bride, was hidden in a large black-silk-hooded operacloak. Warm reality was now so near her she could hear it beating in her ears. The ladder was now within reach. She was a small blonde, not handsome, but with a flair for fashion demonstrated by her elegant chemise gown in the very latest Canterbury muslin, with its low décolletage barely concealed under a fine lawn handkerchief set about her shoulders, and decorated with a mauve satin sash at the waist. “Don’t!” she begged.
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