He called a waiter. After all, she only LOOKED a woman. She looked more than her sixty odd years, in spite of a still lush head of black hair, streaked with a little grey, which was visible under her cap and of immediate interest to Gerald. And a ballot-box—” Her face assumed an expression of intellectual conflict. The autumn rain had made every surface tacky, the wet seats of painted red picnic tables were avoided. You’d make a good Devil.
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