“Believe what, Michelle?” Lucy asked. "The end is the most beautiful in English literature. One from 1966, a yearbook photo reprinted in a newspaper. She tried for her usual confident tone, but only succeeded in sounding gruff, even to her own ears. From the first of these alighted Thames, or, as he must now be styled, the Marquis de Chatillon. Just this? Parbleu, did he think this was enough? She did not wish to marry him—at least, not just because he was an Englishman. This path, bordered on each side by high privet hedges of the most beautiful green, soon brought them to a stile.
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