At this point Lucy, in an effort perhaps—foolhardy, in Gerald’s opinion—to pour oil on troubled waters, rose swiftly to her feet and came towards the old man, her hand held out. Michelle looked at Lucy's feet, still in the ugly brown loafers she had worn since last year. " "One word before I go," urged Blueskin. "You are the son of Sir Montacute Trenchard, of Ashton-Hall, near Manchester. " "Well, well! This part of the world is jammed full of surprises.
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