With a swirl of her floral chintz petticoats, she placed herself in the capacious window seat, accepted the glass Gerald handed to her, and smiled mischievously up at him. " "Didn't the natives have a name for you?" She blushed. “What has he to do with it?” “He was your sister’s master—her friend. Burn your palette and your easel. Michelle’s eyes darted around, she refused to look straight at Lucy. " "Surely, you haven't stolen it?" "Stolen's an awkward word. She fled.
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