"I guess who you mean," rejoined Shotbolt. Anna merely glanced at the coarse, flushed features, and at once shook her head. “She’s my wife,” the man muttered. Her slender throat was encircled by a black riband, with a small locket attached to it; and upon the top of her head rested a diminutive lace cap. “I cannot pretend that I am glad to see you, Lady Ferringhall,” he said quietly. I love.
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