His name was Bartolomeo di Alberti. Under the circumstances you must permit me to be the best judge of the identity of the young lady who did me the honour, as an old family friend, of dining with me. “Just forget it, Lucy! Keep your secrets to yourself!” He stomped out, slamming the heavily paneled oak door. The man Hill has persecuted me for months—ever since I have been in England. Do get your hat, and we will go to that corner café.
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