“You were born for great things,” he said huskily. But he died when he was a child—long ago—long ago—long ago. “Come, we must go home and have some luncheon. ‘Dreadfully untidy, is it not? Can’t abide bare rooms. ’ A strangled sob escaped her as his thumb dug cruelly into the soft flesh of her wrist. Why, he can scarcely be twenty.
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