“I’m six hundred and forty-eight, John, but guess how old I look? Fifteen. She could feel his warm little body trying to snuggle into her, trying to wriggle loose of his swaddling cloth. “But where are you going? Lucy, you’re safe here. But through the fault of that pig, who dared to call himself Valade and masquerade in society under her birthright. And there arose too, a background of shouts.
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