I may as well think. Nasty, damp passages. My name is Ferringhall—Sir John Ferringhall. That had taken her by surprise, and her tired wits had failed her. Annabel was born soulless, a human butterfly, if ever there was one. But I sent him the longest way about. This was the first young man who had drawn from her something more than speculative interest. Her husband stared at her over the candle flame.
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