That was supposed to be Madame Valade. He sat alone in his brother’s old car night after night that summer, staring blankly at the red sky beyond the abandoned farmhouse where she had once shown him her secrets. He made it impossible not to respond, his arms tightening deliciously around hers. Then the bridge had arched gateways, bristling with spikes, and garnished (as all ancient gateways ought to be) with the heads of traitors. " And, with a few magical touches, he stamped the fleeting expression on the canvass.
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