There was a gentle rustling of skirts. Thinking of Mantua, she wandered to the courtyard. It had been his fevered imagination that had endued the garment with some extraordinary value. “Because you used to be my friend, Lucy, and now I don’t get to see you anymore unless I can get into your house. ‘Ah, now I may see what damage Gérard has done to me,’ she muttered, crossing to the table and putting her hand to the sore place at her neck.
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