Renold said. “People choose costumes for the way they see themselves, or the way they would like to be. That’s why kings and queens, bishops and courtesans always outnumber the paupers and common criminals. It’s also the reason you never come across a common person. No one considers themself ordinary.” “That’s all very well, but I would still rather not wear a mask.” Angelica’s voice was as firm as she could make it. It wasn’t easy to withstand his arguments, much less resist his beguiling smile or the colorful costumes of silk and velvet and spangled netting spread out around her. She might as well not have spoken. Lounging in his chair with his feet crossed in front of him, Renold squinted at her. “I don’t see you as a queen, and certainly not a courtesan. No. A gypsy dancer in a dark wig, passionate and wild, free with her favors to the right man. Yes, I like that image.” “You would,” she said shortly. “You don’t feel the part? The gypsy is there, inside you, shut up where she can never be seen.
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