He had promised her some books, for she had voiced her hunger for stories. Prison was beastly. I have come to you for sympathy, perhaps for help. Any natural fineness would be numbed by drink. ‘Well?’ demanded Miss Froxfield, accepting a glass of lemonade proffered by a passing lackey. For the face under her gaze she could find but one expression—fine. All she needed to do was to have a body.
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