Paintings sold off the walls. Brown. ” “Lady Ferringhall—alone?” Ennison exclaimed. She tried gentle words with him, beguiling perfumes, even slipped aphrodisiac tisanes into his soup. ‘But for now, I’m taking you home. ‘Idiot!’ ‘Enough, now! Softly, you little termagant,’ he ordered, seizing her wrists to hold her off. But no matter how you phrase it, the end is the same. She would wake in the night to repeat her bitter cry: “Oh, why did I burn those notes?” It added greatly to the annoyance of the situation that she had twice seen Ramage in the Avenue since her return to the shelter of her father’s roof.
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