‘And since the entire company and Pottiswick himself were unable to find hide nor hair of the infernal French female—’ ‘English, Hilary,’ Gerald reminded him. ‘Well?’ demanded Miss Froxfield, accepting a glass of lemonade proffered by a passing lackey. If the Wastrel had not turned the instant he did, the ball would have missed him; as it was he turned directly into its path. “How are you?” He asked, realizing she was unnerved by the very sound of his voice.
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