’ ‘And your precious vicomte didn’t wish for the English one,’ said Charvill, acid in his voice. She loved the market, the horses trotting about, the bishops forced to be on the same road with old washer-women, the fools begging for a Florin or a ducat. Annabel was born soulless, a human butterfly, if ever there was one. He picked up the remote and sat himself to her right. “I would rather put up with your own efforts, however clumsy. Finally Lucy replied. Will you let your servant call me a hansom,” she continued, opening the door before he could reach her side.
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