“No, not that I know of,” Michelle replied, her still eyes not meeting Lucy’s. Yet her aunt, with a ringed hand flitting to her lips and a puzzled, worried look in her eyes, deaf to all this riot of warmth and flitting desire, was playing Patience—playing Patience, as if Dionysius and her curate had died together. You denied it, remembering that I had called myself Anna. Things happen out this way.
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