“Bother it all!” she swore. “Come in here a moment, will you, Blanche,” he said. I consider even now that the present colour is far less becoming. It was no marriage at all. He looked like a French boy soldier she had once glimpsed marching towards his death in one of the battles they would later call the Hundred Years War. “You must have heard—have you—oh, tell me, won’t you?” she begged. He was not, in truth, much of a ladies’ man. Lucy jammed her foot down onto Mark McCloskey’s forehead.
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