It was long and narrow, a well-lit, wellventilated, quiet gallery of small tables and sinks, pervaded by a thin smell of methylated spirit and of a mitigated and sterilized organic decay. "That gown is getting shabby. She remembered the doctor's warning that the real battle would begin when the patient recovered consciousness. He would make her rub her lips with waxes and other ointments, precursors of lipsticks. “Then I don’t take this as final. Whatever happened she need never return to that possibility. If you had not brought your companion here, it would not have happened. ” He looked at her thoughtfully. You did not learn that in a convent. linked image back linked image back MADEMOISELLE AT ARMS Elizabeth Bailey © 2011 by Elizabeth Bailey All rights reserved.
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