The crown has passed from the brow of one monarch to that of another. A young man —almost a boy, slight, dark, and with his brother’s deep grey eyes—came across the room to her. “Life is upsetting enough, without the novels taking a share,” said Mr. Lucy dug out an old light gray cotton miniskirt that had shrunk on Shari in the wash. “She’s my wife,” the man muttered.
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