She sat there, a mark for boulevarders, the unconscious object of numberless wondering glances. She had gone into Morgan's one afternoon for a bag of salt. Seeing Lucy’s puzzlement, Michelle continued: “She looks like a turtle, but no one ever says anything because Corinne is rich, naturally blonde, and popular. Pay fools with promises. Sheppard's ward, Sir. Close upon this came another thought. She pushed the former and it opened. She could almost smell her mother’s attar of white roses and lemon verbena with the memory of the story.
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