The carpenter did not hesitate a moment. I should never have noticed the miniature at all, if it hadn't been for him. Paris, always beautiful even in the darkness, glittered away to the horizon. She had not gone by the name Lucy during those years but instead had called herself “Mary Lucia Iovelli”. Her fanciful imagination no longer drew pictures of the aunt in the doorway of a wooden house, her arms extended in welcome. She isn't used to cities.
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