Who was he to tread on her dreams? She had heroworshipped an unscrupulous adventurer, who had not hesitated to impose on her youth and her ignorance. In a moment the brisk evening breeze caught the lank canvas and bellied it taut. You mustn’t go clawing after a man that doesn’t belong to you—that isn’t even interested in you. 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. His arms were naturally big and his chest was covered with a smattering of soft hairs.
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