A new woman, then. A woman with opinions. A bluestocking. Her traipsing around unchaperoned and her loony tale about wanting to attend a gallery tour—rather than spy on him—might well be true, then. Her strange old cloak remained incomprehensible. He realized he was running his index finger over his bottom lip, back and forth, as though he were chasing any traces her soft mouth might have left behind. A very soft mouth. She had tasted sweet, a hint of sugared tea mixed into the flavor of the rain on her skin. Her scent still clung to him; he thought he could smell roses whenever he moved. He
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