The small grey feathers of her exquisitely shaped fan waved gently backwards and forwards. ‘All right, Trodger. “But why, Lucy? Who is it 145 that you are trying to hide from? John?” Lucy closed her eyes in earnest. He was a just man, and he did not care to start any thunder which was not based upon fairness. " "From whom?" vociferated Trenchard. “My dear friend,” she laughed, “not so tragic, if you please.
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