She read beautifully because the fixed form of the poem signified nothing. Ann Veronica decided she would have to go on with Capes another day, and, looking up, discovered him sitting on a stool with his hands in his pockets and his head a little on one side, regarding her with a thoughtful expression. Lucy collapsed to the floor in a sob. Assessing him as harmless, she had remained friendly, albeit aloof. ‘You!’ ‘Yes, it is I, mademoiselle,’ he continued in his own tongue.
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