Outside stood a stocky, combat boot-clad girl of seventeen with a teased mass of spiky bottle-black hair. Lucy felt the hairs on her neck rise. ‘Parbleu,’ said Gerald. She threw the bags of marijuana and a tiny bag of white powder he had in the sewer, unfortunately they were his only worldly possessions. “In Paris your sister appeared to me to be a charming student of frivolity. Unless it was a jewel or locket of some kind. Or I should have made love to you long ago. She saw, twenty yards down the platform, the shiny hat and broad back and inimitable swagger of Ramage.
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