Vorsack would staunchly disapprove of his attire, said nothing anyway. Capes was an exceptionally fair man of two or three-and-thirty, so ruddily blond that it was a mercy he had escaped light eyelashes, and with a minor but by no means contemptible reputation of his own. One Friday afternoon, in this pleasant month, it chanced that Mr. “Don’t fence with me,” Anna cried fiercely. They drove around town that night in his Buick convertible.
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