Lucy sat paralyzed, as still as Tiger Lily on the death raft. She had to wait some minutes in an outer office, wherein three young men of spirited costume and appearance regarded her with ill-concealed curiosity and admiration. ‘Here you, Pottiswick. She had in her suitcase a small scrapbook, only a few pages, what little information she had gathered on him through the years. ” “It certainly was,” she admitted. “Even Katy Pfister can’t touch you now.
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