’ ‘I swear to you, it is the exact truth,’ he protested. As she did so, the ruffles to the jacket of her riding habit fell away, exposing livid blue bruises about her wrist, ugly in the light of day from the window at their back. Or was that perhaps because his business in Piccadilly the other day had gone awry? Perhaps Brewis Charvill had not welcomed him with open arms. She opened it and drew out a letter, and folded within it were the notes she had sent off to Ramage that day.
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