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. Though
it was tangled and ratty now, she wore her topknot in six
braids woven with colorful bird feathers. Her eyes were
the pale, pale blue of winter ice on a clear day. Phineas's
arms were around her now, and he could feel that her fig-
ure was slim and well-toned; Trapspringer was certain
she'd have no trouble scaling a building with him.
Her heavy wool vest was matted and dirty, with
dozens of twigs and leaves tangled into it. The sleeves of
her cotton blouse were torn, her red leggings were
crusted with dried mud and covered with burrs.
Her only flaw was that her face had not yet developed
the network of fine wrinkles Trapspringer found so at-
tractive in a woman, but she was still young so there was
hope.
"I don't know who you are, but you're not a bad
kisser," she mumbled. Trapspringer thought her voice
sounded like soft, melodious bells. "But you'd be a whole
lot better if you --"
Trapspringer silenced her with a crushing kiss of his
own, as his passions took over his mind.
There was even less conversation after that.
"What was that?" Trapspringer demanded all of a sud-
den. He wrestled Damaris away from his face and tilted
his head to the side. "Don't you hear something?"
"I hear something, all right," she giggled. Damaris
whispered something obscene in Trapspringer's ear.
"Good gods, girl!" Trapspringer breathed in admira-
tion. "You're too much of a handful for my young
nephew!"
Damaris held herself away from Trapspringer and in-
spected his face. 'You're the uncle of that worthless no-
show, Tasslehoff Burrfoot?"
Trapspringer saw the lusty fire in her eyes growing
into an angry blaze
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