The morning of Monday the 16th of November 1724 at length dawned. The bleach had ruined it, with yellow-orange streaks invading the frizzy white that cascaded in wavy tendrils coated with greasy hairspray. It must be the dawn creeping in. Lucy? Come 177 on out. Walpole's order to that effect—but not before. She held out her hand for it, but Gerald smiled. She had to make sure, for the peace of her mind, that this was really the man.
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