She was a trained being—trained by an implacable mother to one end. ‘Well?’ demanded Miss Froxfield, accepting a glass of lemonade proffered by a passing lackey. But Blueskin was not to be silenced. And she had not dressed herself in this habit of a blue so much like the sky just for his sake, no matter that Lucy had said how much this colour suited with her eyes. “But why is it preposterous?” asked Ann Veronica, and fiddled with a pipe on the mantel.
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