The season was ripe for mating, she thought to herself bitterly. Rollo began to cavort. ‘Well?’ she said. The late afternoon, en effet. Valade, who was standing by her chair, glancing around the packed pink-papered saloon with a heavy frown on his face, was a thickset man of coarse, reddened feature, with a discontented air. Lucy propped Michelle against a thick, knobby tree stump. ‘No mistaking you this time.
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