Lucy could feel blood welling underneath a bump half swelling and already half-healing on her scalp. Her long incarceration at the convent in Blaye had taught her to be dismissive of her own appearance. She shook her head. “You appear,” she said, without any sign of anger in her tone, and with unruffled composure, “to be a very impertinent person. Her hand grasped it firmly, and she pushed herself forward.
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