With a drawn cutlass in one hand and a cocked pistol in the other, Blueskin rushed up stairs. ‘And she’s—’ She broke off, a sudden light in her eyes. It was an oldfashioned peasant blouse, white, square necked, and trimmed with lace. He devoured her with his eyes too, his shyness not able to disguise his furtive glances at the curvy outline of her breast against the imitation silk, his memory still exquisitely tortured by her movements in the miniskirt. But the world didn’t do that.
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