Surely it was a dream. The lady's name's engraved inside, but so small I can scarcely read it. She is no longer mine; she is yours. Michelle looked at Lucy's feet, still in the ugly brown loafers she had worn since last year. E. ‘Me, I am Mademoiselle Charvill, the granddaughter of Monsieur Jar-vis Re-men-ham.
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