She turned away from the doorway of the silk loom to observe. She looked directly at his face, his perpetually graying hair, his hawkish nose, his long cheekbones. “Come, we must go home and have some luncheon. "If we take him, I don't mind giving you a share—say a fourth—provided you lend a helping hand. They might applaud, or object, or interfere, but the drama was her very own.
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