He regretted— more deeply than he could say—the occurrence of this evening. "My limbs feel so light, now that my irons are removed," he observed with a smile, "that I am half inclined to dance. I never could. It was red and chapped. A faint, delightfully humorous smile parted her lips. And the fact that it was dressed in riding gear had fooled her into thinking it was her own image. I do not say guest because that suggests friendship; and I am no friend of this Wastrel. To his relief, she nodded. His build was medium, he would never 5 tower over his peers, yet his shoulders were broadening, betrayed by an undeveloped set of pectoral muscles underneath his button-down shirt that she could tell frustrated him. ‘I suppose he isn’t this Leonardo you spoke of?’ ‘Certainly he is not Leonardo. She was herself conscious of a recklessness of spirits almost hysterical.
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