The wedding procession passed on, and the cynical rabble poured in behind. ’ ‘You traitor, Gerald,’ laughed Lucilla, her yellow curls bouncing under a huge straw bonnet all over flowers. But there was no feeling of remorse; there was only the sensation of exaltation. The room behind was another small antechamber, presumably linking the back rooms. ‘That little kiss cost him his sanctuary, my girl, and don’t you forget it.
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