"Excuse me," he said, plunging his fork into a fowl, and transferring it to his plate. She rehearsed the story of her forlorn long lost mother in her head, what she would say to the theorymongers. "Whose grave is this?" he inquired of a man who was standing near it. Perhaps Sir John is going to take the other one under his wing. Lucy followed her. He reappeared in street clothes, his cropped hair not even damp from the shower, fresh-faced and sweetsmelling.
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