\"What's your number?\" Michelle asked Lucy. "To paint your portrait," answered the jailer. “Anna! What tragedy has happened, little sister? No lights, no supper, no coffee —and, above all, no Mr. Her long incarceration at the convent in Blaye had taught her to be dismissive of her own appearance. She slipped on a white clingy imitation silk tee-shirt, a sexy number that Shari had bought on super-sale at the Limited. The policemen were closing in from the sides to intervene. “Well——” She stopped short. She was shifting, moving back. .
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