They drove up into Paris in an open fiacre with a soft cool wind blowing in their faces, hand in hand beneath the rug. His deduction was correct that the beauty of Ruth Enschede could not remain hidden long even on a forgotten isle. To even presume a lustful thought about her was to ask for one’s own death. The features were indistinct, but was that not a halo of white about it? And the dark shadow below, was that a cloak, or the habit of a nun? Skirting the dancing, from which he had taken a breather—not from lack of energy, but to escape the inanities of the young ladies he had partnered—Gerald made his way to a side door in the saloon and opened it. "And, now I'll tell you what they do.
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