"To paint your portrait," answered the jailer. \" She replied. “I get that a lot. “Lucy, do you forgive me?” She looked at him in earnest. As she did so, the ruffles to the jacket of her riding habit fell away, exposing livid blue bruises about her wrist, ugly in the light of day from the window at their back. Painting is only one slender branch of the great tree. You've caught the colour and the life. Wood had retired to his own room, where he had just summoned Thames.
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