“Poor Lucy!” Cathy exclaimed as she rushed in the door, umbrella sheathed. ‘Unless he is himself a man of substance. The same pale white buttocks, the same freckles in the same unchanging patterns on her collarbone that all of her mother’s potions had never been able to erase. And don't worry about the six thousand, Hoddy. She was dressed in a simple evening gown of soft creamy silk, with a yoke of dark old embroidery that enhanced the gentle gravity of her style, and her black hair flowed off her open forehead to pass under the control of a simple ribbon of silver.
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