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. ’ ‘That’s fortunate,’ murmured Lucilla. I'll have no such toast drunk at my table!" "It's the king's birthday," urged the woollen draper. ’ ‘Well, sir? Who is “she”? Not my granddaughter, I take it.
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