She held out her arm straight before her, and turned her hand this way and that. Upstairs, in the little dressing-room, the panel was opened by means of tugging a small candlesconce in the wall. Few approached the émigrés directly, preferring to stare covertly from behind their fans, while pretending to admire the simple elegance of Lady Bicknacre’s neo-classical refurbishments. “You’re self-taught, aren’t you, Lucy?” She looked around the table, all eyes upon her.
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