Her long incarceration at the convent in Blaye had taught her to be dismissive of her own appearance. She was shifting, moving back. And her mother, looking unusually alert and hectic, wore cream and brown also, made up in a more complicated manner. She would come and sit cross-legged just beyond the bamboo curtain and silently watch him at work. Lucy turned and faced the strawberry blonde behind her, gesturing rapidly with a folded origami triangle, evidently the newest form of note.
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