Outside stood a stocky, combat boot-clad girl of seventeen with a teased mass of spiky bottle-black hair. Wherein she differed but little from her young sisters. ‘Pray you, mademoiselle, can you not—’ ‘No use trying to enlist Lucilla’s aid,’ snapped Roding. You’re all dependents—all of you. Her face reminded him of a delicate unglazed porcelain cup, filled with blond wine. It was wonderful to think this thing had lived, had felt and suffered. ‘C’est ridicule. 4.
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