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Gisella's hand flew to her mouth in a masquerade of
shame. Somehow she coaxed color to flood her cheeks.
"I don't believe it! Oh, now I've insulted you! I'm usually
not such a blunderer at guessing a person's age!"
She clucked her tongue and shook her head gravely.
"I've ruined everything. You won't want anything to do
with me, and you have the best merchandise at the fair t
Please accept my apology." She touched his hairy arm
gently and turned to leave. "I won't bother you further."
She took a step from the booth, putting more wiggle in
that one step than either Woodrow or Tasslehoff thought
possible.
"Please, don't be sorry, Miss -- ?"
"-- Matron Hornslager," Gisella supplied, letting a
grateful smile grow on her face as she turned to him
again. This was one of the easiest fish she had ever reeled
in. "Then you will deal with me? Oh, you dear man! To
show you how guilty and grateful I feel, I'll buy twice as
much as I can afford! Mr. Hornslager will surely be an-
gry with me, but I don't care!" she said defiantly.
"By Reorx," he responded, "I'd hate to think of you in
trouble with your husband, whoever the lucky fellow is.
I can't imagine any greater tribute to my wares than for
them to adorn your lovely figure. I'll gladly sell you
twenty bolts for what they cost me, if only you promise
to tell people where you got them."
"Any twenty bolts?" cooed Gisella.
"My shop is yours," he replied, with a sweep of his
hairy hand. Gisella knew his eyes were glued to her
swaying bottom as she brushed past him
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