She carried herself well, whereas her brother slouched, and there was a certain aristocratic dignity about her that she had acquired through her long engagement to a curate of family, a scion of the Wiltshire Edmondshaws. Who invented them? Nobody knows. “Don’t you know, child, that this is torture for me? What in God’s name more can you have to tell me?” Her face had become almost like a marble image. “I cannot pretend that I am glad to see you, Lady Ferringhall,” he said quietly. just furtive meetings.
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