3. \"Ever thought about letting me do something with your hair?\" Not needing an answer, Shari got up and whipped out a vented brush from an overstuffed drawer. She would come back and write letters, carefully planned and written letters, or read some book she had fetched from Mudie’s—she had invested a half-guinea with Mudie’s—or sit over her fire and think. Only three days. Come along, master. But after that it was easy. They were a dull grey, but the dark frizzed hair that framed her face was attractive. She could hear him from the lower floor as he locked the gates and drew up the wooden part of the bridge. “We were good friends in Paris, weren’t we? You made me all sorts of promises, we planned no end of nice things, and then—without a word to any one you disappeared.
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