“I’m six hundred and forty-eight, John, but guess how old I look? Fifteen. No hair to fall awry, no powder to displace, no ruffles to crush; men are lucky. This island was the one haven he had; he might be forced to remain here for several years—until the Hand had forgotten him. ’ ‘It’s too late for that,’ Gerald told her evenly. It is no crime, none at all. Coldly she spoke, in a distinctly accented voice. “Perhaps.
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