You say you have twenty-four hundred in your letter of credit. It was a boy baby cooing in swaddling clothes, a baby who had just been born to the butcher's servant across the alley, the maid Isobella who trailed behind, beaming. Maybe half a year, counting this summer. There was nothing to replace the all important letter from her father. Lucy felt a finger tap her on the bra strap as she observed Michelle chatting with yet another passing group of people. But this was a vicomte’s sister.
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