“Well——” She stopped short. He pushed her to his bed, little more than a cot, and pulled off her clothes. Her heartbeat raced, her limbs turned to water, and it was only by a miracle and the strength of the arms that held her that she remained standing on her feet. He was a square-faced man of nearly fifty, with iron-gray hair a mobile, cleanshaven mouth and rather protuberant black eyes that now scrutinized Ann Veronica. She was glad not to be baking in it anymore, or feeling the fiberglass splinters 64 invading her rear end from sitting on the bleachers. Kneebone, are these your French noblemen?" "Don't upbraid me!" rejoined the woollen-draper. \"Uh-oh.
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