The same pale white buttocks, the same freckles in the same unchanging patterns on her collarbone that all of her mother’s potions had never been able to erase. “Do you think you’ll ever get married, Lucy?” Lucy shifted uncomfortably as she pulled her makeshift nightgown—an old T-shirt—over her head. Try and consider me your elder brother, or an old family friend, whichever you like best. ‘But you know everything now,’ protested Hilary, keeping pace as Gerald took the stairs two at a time.
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