He smothered a laugh. ‘But she will not shoot you,’ Melusine told him flatly. Pramlay lived for amenities and the mellowed surfaces of things. She ought to have been disposed to faint and scream at all these happenings; she ought to have maintained a front of outraged dignity to veil the sinking of her heart. Annabel passed on with a strained nod to her sister, and Sir John’s bow was a miracle of icy displeasure.
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