Her gaze flickered down to his pistol. He moved her dress from her shoulders and off her torso. The wretch you confide in has sworn to hang you. "I'll tell you why," he said. She had to wear cream and a brown sash and a short frock and her hair down, and Gwen cream and a brown sash and a long skirt and her hair up. How dreary it all looks. I'm no great judge of these articles, Ma'am; but I trust to your honour not to palm off paste upon me.
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