’ ‘Je m’en moque. They drove up into Paris in an open fiacre with a soft cool wind blowing in their faces, hand in hand beneath the rug. The postilion obeyed, and dashed off as hard as his horses could gallop along the beautiful road leading to Neasdon and Willesden, just as the serving-men made their appearance. When they were going home she asked her mother why she and Gwen and Alice had cried. “Don’t lie to everyone, Lucy! You know it’s the truth!” Michelle defended herself.
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