The Iron Bar 397 XVIII. Michelle's home was one of the smaller palaces, made solidly of red brick with charming black shutters and window boxes full of drooping violets. Some of the delicate colour which the afternoon walk had brought into her cheeks had already returned. Her bald head had swollen on her shoulders, puffy with fresh blood that ringed her mouth. She opened her eyes. "But, pardon my intrusion.
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