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“Are you speaking to me?” she asked calmly. Despair engulfed her at the horrid remembrance that the one particular Englishman she knew to be sympathique did not at all wish to marry her. It was always jabbing him with white-hot barbs, waking or sleeping. You must—you shall be mine. Chapter XXI HER SISTER’S SECRET “I think,” Lady Ferringhall said, “that you are talking very foolishly. Wiped out, but for these.
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