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"I turned around. Armand had once again decked himself out in high-fashion velvet
and embroidered lace, the kind of "romantic new look" one could find at any of the
shops in the deep crevasse below us. His auburn hair was free and uncut and hung
down in the way it used to do in ages long past, when as Satan's saint of the vampires
of Paris, he would not have allowed himself the vanity to cut one lock of it. Only it
was clean, shining clean, auburn in the light, and against the dark blood-red of his
coat. And there were his sad and always youthful eyes looking at me, the smooth
boyish cheeks, the angel's mouth." -Lestat |
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"Oh, the horror on Armand's face. In his old finery, he stood, heavy shopwindow
velvet coat, modern lace, boots spiffed like glass. His face, the Botticelli angel still,
torn with pain as he looked at me." -Lestat |
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