Lucy could feel blood welling underneath a bump half swelling and already half-healing on her scalp. She traveled through back yards and quiet side streets on her way home, careful to avoid the main thoroughfares, fraught as they were with people in cars who would recognize her person or notice her dress. I have been the vicomte’s secretary, remember. There was no one else in the doorway. But of what use to wear it when there was no one of importance to see and admire? ‘For shame, Melusine,’ protested Lucy, as the butler bowed himself out of the room.
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