A girl—at my age—is grown-up. Gianfrancesco’s had curved differently and was darker. They had much to talk about, or rather Miss Prudence had. And turning again, as if the emotions she had churned up kept her on the move, she paced back to the mantel and there stopped, staring at her own reflection in the tarnished mirror. “Tell me his name,” he said, “and I promise that he shall never trouble you. ” She paused. It’s all very fine and all that, Vee, this freedom, but it isn’t going to work.
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