“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. He kissed her fingers and grinned. He would make her rub her lips with waxes and other ointments, precursors of lipsticks. He would get very cross one evening and no one would dare to remind him of it. She despises me, I suppose. ‘You don’t even know what it means, do you?’ Melusine frowned. ” Michelle looked at her friend in suspicious awe.
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