Lucia watched in fascination as Isobella nodded at her, only three years older than she, nursing her son with a contented smile upon her face. She was at the end of girlhood and on the eve of a woman’s crowning experience. Each arm of the blouse had the faintest of rings around the elbow, a stain that looked familiar. ‘But only think, Hilary,’ Lucy protested, evidently too involved in her theory to waste time in scolding.
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