The last of Jarvis’s harlots must have departed in a hurry, for she had apparently left a roomful of clothes. Her cheeks burned for a moment or two when she reached the street, although she held her head upright and walked blithely, even humming to herself fragments of an old French song. Weeks hurled past, weeks that turned into months. Aliva Trencher. Now the baby’s bright May eyes peered up at her intently. Sweatshirts and sweatpants were in for a while but they’re out now. ‘Mademoiselle.
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