Titterington, Spring 1781 Meg scrutinised herself carefully in the looking glass on her bedroom chest of drawers. On second glance, she decided, there was nothing terribly wrong with her reflection, or any sign of blotches, spots or, God forbid, crows feet, on her unblemished complexion. She let out an unladylike sigh. She was tired of these silly moods and megrims. After all, life was
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