"How polite of Lucifer," she says, wry. It's blasphemous, but she's not eighteen anymore, and shocked by such things. This fellow before her lacks the makeup, the wigs and wig-powder, the high heels and the corsetry, but he is reminding her more and more of men about court-- a kinder version, surely; he doesn't exist primarily to mock. But something about him seems overfond of presentation.
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"How polite of Lucifer," she says, wry. It's blasphemous, but she's not eighteen anymore, and shocked by such things. This fellow before her lacks the makeup, the wigs and wig-powder, the high heels and the corsetry, but he is reminding her more and more of men about court-- a kinder version, surely; he doesn't exist primarily to mock. But something about him seems overfond of presentation.