She wedged the towel between her legs. “What have you done?” 212 “It is your own fault, Lucia. Frequently he would take up a box of talc and send a shower down his back, or fill his palms with the powder and rub his face and arms and hands. ‘And then you will be obliged to remain in France,’ she pointed out. Were I to let you go, you'd say I feared you.
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