The next page was a drawing that she had made in pen and ink of his face, or what she had remembered of it. ’ ‘And you believe her?’ asked Lucilla, raising her brows. ‘But, Gérard—’ ‘Don’t start arguing,’ he said in a tone that brooked no defiance. Thankfully, he seemed pleased the moment he saw her face, which her mother had made her wash for weeks with the pulp of apples, orange water, and 21 extract of borage among other things. The wall of St. Prison was beastly.
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