The Vorsack house bore the stamp of Diane in every visible spot. “Just like old times,” she thought sardonically. She dreaded living off the land again, like an animal, as she had done for dozens of years at a stretch. With a drawn cutlass in one hand and a cocked pistol in the other, Blueskin rushed up stairs. “I suppose Paris is very, very distracting. If I did not love you en désespoir, I would assuredly blow off your head. A lean young man in spectacles pursued her for some time, crying “Courage! Courage!” Somebody threw a dab of mud at her, and some of it got down her neck.
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