Her mouth was worthy of her face; with small, pearly-white teeth; lips glossy, rosy, and pouting; and the sweetest smile imaginable, playing constantly about them. Instinct had forced her to create something out of rags to satisfy a mysterious craving. “And you must please not look at me as though I were an executioner,” she declared lightly. I've no doubt he's as honest as either of you. These things were common knowledge among the bon ton, who were generously welcoming these unfortunate escapees.
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