I made the pies. She read on and on, now thrilled by the swiftly moving drama, now enraptured by the tender passages of love. The curve of his shoulders, the very angle of his feet, expressed relief at her apparent obedience. She infused menace into her voice. “If my own mother was alive,” sobbed Ann Veronica, “she would understand. “Mid-thirties. A spot of colour, brighter than any rouge, burned on her cheeks. Sir John filled his glass with trembling hand.
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