Rhea writhed and scuttled about like a crab. It isn’t as though I haven’t done well. ‘You will like to marry me, yes?’ she pursued. Wood, reproachfully, as they returned to the parlour. “You are the Sir John Ferringhall who has bought the Lyndmore estate, are you not?” she remarked. With an open hand, he slapped her face. ‘Parbleu, how you make me talk!’ ‘Your secret is safe with me, I promise you,’ Gerald said reassuringly.
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