Lucy turned and faced the strawberry blonde behind her, gesturing rapidly with a folded origami triangle, evidently the newest form of note. Either she had been seen, or they were seeking the air. “I was hoping to be able to secure a few minutes’ conversation with you, Miss Pellissier. Looked all over that dratted convent of yours—or at least Trodger and the men did so—but no sign of them. “We’ve made out but we haven’t had sex. “My sister,” she murmured, “is so independent.
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