‘Do not think—’ he panted, ‘that I am finished—with you, mademoiselle. She had traversed perhaps three bookshelves, passed across the door that must lead to the hall, turned the corner, and was just about to reach the fireplace when she abruptly became aware that something under her fingers had felt wrong. Just what in the world was that about? Before he could hazard a guess, Lucy looked back at him. ‘Me, I have a name. Or, better still, put all my clothes in the trunk.
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