You have betrayed me. ‘Jacques?’ she called. Twenty-one, twenty-two. “How are you, Lucy?” Martin ran to catch her in the crowded hall. Over the mantel, set into an ornately carved panel with fluted columns at each end, was a portrait of a man on horseback. But, no. She had Cathy’s predisposition to overweight and her hips were solid and thick under her jeans. . Straitened circumstances would not have mattered; a mother would have managed somehow.
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