He looked like a French boy soldier she had once glimpsed marching towards his death in one of the battles they would later call the Hundred Years War. I shall always be kind to him; I sha'n't bait him. And Lady Trafford having been carried down stairs, and placed within it, the postboy drove off, at a rapid pace for Barnet. On the way, he hired a chair with a couple of stout porters, and ordered them to follow him. Lucy sighed. ‘How do you do, my lord? I am Lucilla Froxfield.
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