The ledge, along which he crawled, was about a foot wide. For the present, he murmured his farewells, and turning, caught Hilary’s eye and walked away, crossing the ballroom to move into the less opulent, and less crowded, saloon next door where servants were dispensing refreshments. Yet she could not bring herself to hate the girl, or even Gianfrancesco, the one who would have sent her to her death more than once. I'll bet you haven't given her a bucket of paint in three years. She thought me— filthy.
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