She was retuning, fifths spilling from the sliver of light underneath the door like milk. But to go courting a slave-girl, at the risk of physical hurt! A shudder of distaste wrinkled her shoulders. “No Christmas dinner,” she said, “or anything nice! One doesn’t even know what you are doing. You’re a piss-poor liar, John. ’ ‘Oh, this is becoming nonsensical,’ exclaimed Lucilla. He understood. She turned off the light and approached the window.
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