Then the bridge had arched gateways, bristling with spikes, and garnished (as all ancient gateways ought to be) with the heads of traitors. One day her mother swept into the bedroom of the family townhouse, sweeping across the floor with a bundle in her arms. ’ *** It must have been fate, Gerald decided, near an hour later, staring intently at the closed French windows on the raised alcove that led out to the terrace. It wailed at Lucy, chubby arms reaching towards her, pleading. Then he turned on his heel and walked off.
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