She inhaled a deep breath of air—London air. The stretch of red dirt disappeared into a stretch of trees like Van Gogh’s painting. "Do you call neglecting your work, and singing flash songs nothing? Zounds! you incorrigible rascal, many a master would have taken you before a magistrate, and prayed for your solitary confinement in Bridewell for the least of these offences. Michelle seemed so innocent and sweet. Lucy felt her eyes misting up, turning traitor. ‘Very useful, of course.
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