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‘Why! You ask me why. Infamy! With the grease-paint fresh on your fingers.’
Both Panty and Troy gaped at this. Panty glanced at her hand. ‘That’s her paint,’ she said, jerking her head at Troy. ‘That’s not grease-paint.’
‘Do you deny,’ Cedric pursued, shaking his finger at her, ‘do you deny, you toxic child, that you went into your grandfather’s dressing-room while he was sitting for Mrs. Alleyn, and scrawled some pothouse insult in lake-liner on his looking-glass? Do you deny, moreover, that you painted a red moustache on the cat, Carabbas?’
With an air of bewilderment that Troy could have sworn was genuine, Panty repeated her former statement. ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about. I didn’t.’
‘Tell that,’ said Cedric with relish, ‘to your grandpapa and see if he believes you.’
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