’ He glanced at Roding. ‘How do you do, my lord? I am Lucilla Froxfield. His name was Bartolomeo di Alberti. She could hear the raucous laughter and bad music below. They are our food, Lucia, nothing more. But it is only fair to warn you that it isn’t expected. I cannot think he will welcome a French émigré for his granddaughter. She was definitely following him.
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