” She laid her hand softly upon his. Lucy tried not to notice the starched smell, overpowering and powdery. They had not to tarry long. Then the bridge had arched gateways, bristling with spikes, and garnished (as all ancient gateways ought to be) with the heads of traitors. The small Diedermayer clan was a captive audience. ‘Go on up to the boy, my dear. You’d make a good Devil.
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