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“She has one, that’s why. ‘What are you, a nincompoop? She was Nicholas’s wife, of course. A beachcomber in embryo, and she had lent a hand through habit as much as through pity. She leaned back in the corner of the cab with a little sigh of relief. ‘What you can do, Lucy, rather than make enquiries, is introduce me to this comte and comtesse. Wood caught hold of Jack's leg, and dragged him off the bench. ’ Martha frowned.
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