Before she put on her sun-helmet, she paused before the mirror. ‘Well?’ demanded Miss Froxfield, accepting a glass of lemonade proffered by a passing lackey. “You would be wise to loosen your purse-strings, Gianfrancesco. Here and there, patches of flesh adhered to the bones, and the dank dripping hair hanging about what had once been the face, gave it a ghastly appearance.
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