Almost at once she had comprehended that she was expected to write down her name and address, which she did, in slanting cobwebby lettering, perhaps a trifle laboriously. And one must—some of it must slip through one’s fingers. ‘What has that to say to anything?’ ‘Nothing at all,’ smiled Lucy nervously. What Miss Miniver would have called the Higher Truth supervenes. The door opened, and a slightly overweight pretty blonde, an older, wiser version of Michelle, came into view.
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