Lucy looked at the stains on the threadbare carpeting to distract herself, embarrassed to her core. Sebastian administered bitter tonics to her, fluids she could not taste with her swollen tongue. We can’t afford to turn our women, our Madonnas, our Saint Catherines, our Mona Lisas, our goddesses and angels and fairy princesses, into a sort of man. We’ll have some buttered toast. Her own pack was so light that she left it in the locker. “What did you say?” “Well, I considered myself justified in denying it,” Anna answered drily.
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