Lucy thought of a song that she had not been able to get out of her head since the Fifties. She spoke readily enough, but there was a new timidity in her manner. Her head ached with a hollow pain. ‘You are related to General Lord Charvill?’ ‘Monsieur le baron, he is my grandpére,’ she confirmed. And there was no intimation whatever that the blinds would ever go up or the windows or doors be opened, or the chandeliers, that seemed to promise such a blaze of fire, unveiled and furnished and lit.
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