Her bald head had swollen on her shoulders, puffy with fresh blood that ringed her mouth. Beyond was a chaise longue, covered with cushions and shawls laid anyhow across it, together with a discarded tapestry in the making, and a scattering of woollen threads about it. He now understood her interest in Taber, as he called himself: habit, a twice-told tale. Not so Gosse.
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