Michelle moaned and Lucy, unable to help herself, stroked her hair. Now I do. ‘Why do you think I told you about the portrait? I’d not seen it, of course, but I’d seen Miss Mary just before she got married, which is when it was painted. So here is your chance, Mademoiselle Charvill. He leaned towards her as though anxious to see more of her face than that faint delicate profile gleaming like marble in the uncertain light. No doubt he knew enough of his world to recognise that he stood little chance against the word of a major of militia.
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