” Annabel looked at him curiously. ‘You cannot read my mind at all, monsieur. ” When he brought home papers from Florence verifying that she had been declared dead having committed suicide the fateful day at the manor, she could barely believe Gianfrancesco’s signature at the bottom of the page. “Couldn’t we three go out and have some coffee somewhere? The thought of that drawing-room paralyses me. Do you want me, too?” “Yes,” she whispered foolishly, in the throes of rapture.
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