Here and there, patches of flesh adhered to the bones, and the dank dripping hair hanging about what had once been the face, gave it a ghastly appearance. "The Wastrel seemed to take it all right. ‘He had run away with a Frenchwoman, you see, but Everett Charvill—I refer to the general—took care to conceal the matter. He climbed on top of her, pressing her into the couch cushions, the gown billowing around them like a cotton candy parachute.
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