“You are a funny, a very funny young lady,” he said, “but we waste time here. It was his redemption, his ticket out of hell—that blue-serge coat. Silken open robes over full tiffany petticoats in a contrasting colour were, Lucy assured him, of the very latest Parisian design, cut by the finest French tailors. Go back at once, please. “You will sign the contract?” “I shall sign the contract. His eyes were closed. ‘Something for you, Lucy?’ he asked, interrupting a heated argument that had obviously been in progress for some little time before their arrival.
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