Monsieur Valade heaved a gusty sigh, and Gerald, with heavy diplomacy and a forced heartiness of manner, turned the subject. “Wow. Ashen blonde, a shade that would never excite the cynical commentary which men applied to certain types of blondes. It was at lunch when McClintock announced that in the mailpouch he had found a letter addressed to Howard Taber, care of Donald McClintock and so-forth. In one hand she carried a long-stalked red rose, dripping with dew, in the other the post-bag. “I’m six hundred and forty-eight, John, but guess how old I look? Fifteen.
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