Tonight Lucy doled out outré physiological theories of boys and their overactive hormones. Something or other—she did not catch what—he was damned if he could stand. She spied him sitting on his armless black couch, his feet splayed as he stared at his television blankly. ‘Suppose you don’t know what sort of proof she was after?’ he asked. She was clad in fresh linen, but still wore the riding-habit she had appropriated, having sponged out the spots of blood late last night and left it to dry in the kitchens.
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