"Will he consent, to be searched?" inquired Jonathan. She changed into a halter top and a pair of tight jeans herself, and let Lucy brush her long, glossy hair as they talked about mascara, schoolwork, and boys. There was a tearing sound as the canvas gave way, and the precious portrait ripped apart as the top of the Frenchman’s head came through it. Nasty, damp passages. Ramage. Anna’s face however was wholly impassive.
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