She could feel Martin’s eyes boring into her as she entered the room, her own personal Farhat. Lucy changed into her Goodwill jeans and sweatshirt, plastering her hair down with an elastic band and securing it under a tight hood. ‘I thought it was his great-nephew, young Brewis Charvill, who is his heir. Mademoiselle has had no harm of me,’ Gerald said soothingly and bowed. The villagers were thronging to church.
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