She held out her arms to him and smiled. She was wearing a becoming tea-gown, and it was quite certain that Sir John would not be home for several hours at least. “Martin Chen!” Michelle shouted his name in an outburst, like an invocation. A piece of old blanket was fastened across her shoulders, and she had no other clothing except a petticoat. You were with your mother, the two of you huddled like thieves, laughing at the silly women who tried to shield themselves from rain by cowering under empty baskets and shawls. The last piece was Scheherazade.
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