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Baldassare's own were black as old channel-posts in the Lagoon, but in tongue-work he gave as sharp as he got. Then a wicked wind blew Vanna's hair like a whip across her throat, fit to strangle her. She had to face the day. Baldassare pondered her straight young back. "When Vanna's a nun she'll have no more trouble with her hair," quoth La Testolina, matchmaker by race.
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