Of course she had taken the boy as her lover, acting as his muse. ‘Me, I am Mademoiselle Charvill, the granddaughter of Monsieur Jar-vis Re-men-ham. “You shall,” she said. They sat down in a covered pavilion that housed a grimy picnic table and a dingy fire pit. But that bridge was more remarkable than any the metropolis now possesses.
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