“Is that so? Who says?” He demanded, his eyebrows arching as he looked at her with puerile glee. Valade, who was standing by her chair, glancing around the packed pink-papered saloon with a heavy frown on his face, was a thickset man of coarse, reddened feature, with a discontented air. “My dad is into this stuff. Lucy wore it every day from then on. I suppose it is the mirrors and decorations.
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