“Perhaps,” he queried, “you wish to avoid being seen about with any one—er— connected with the profession, under present circumstances. “It was the night you left Paris. Not once during the ceremony did the two look at each other, but riveted their gaze upon the lips of the man who was forging the bands: gazed intensively, as if they feared the world might vanish before the last word of the ceremony was spoken. After what seemed like an eternity he turned right onto a dirt road that ended unceremoniously at a copse of leafless trees. What about your real mother? Wasn’t she also a foster child? Michelle told me that she was suspected of murder, some people named McFerrin, McDougal. It was a fetching gown that stretched tightly in a cream colored swath over her breasts and expanded to a full skirt with a petticoat.
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