’ ‘How do you know?’ Lucilla repeated, almost as sceptical as her intended spouse. He told some of the particulars. They got in my mouth. She was clad in fresh linen, but still wore the riding-habit she had appropriated, having sponged out the spots of blood late last night and left it to dry in the kitchens. “—and your aunt—” For a time he searched for the mot juste. “The young women of Jane Austen’s time didn’t get into this sort of scrape! At least—one thinks so.
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