The slim knife was wrested from her grasp, and she was flung backwards, towards the bookcases. If the young ladies were dowerless, which seemed likely, their attire at least—so Lucilla assured him in a whisper—was of the first stare. He reached the top floor and ran down the corridor to the little dressing room at the end where he had lost her before. Her cheeks were aflame. Conscientious objectors to that process are not permitted, she found, in Canongate. “You’re very nice, both of you,” she said gently.
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