It had seemed to her that life might be very good indeed with his kindliness and sacrifice about her. Was this the result of some strange experiment? It was the person of Annabel Pellissier—the soul of a very different order of being. She would often steal away to tryst with him in the orchard, even now she felt her loins grow warm with the memory of his ardor. “It does nothing but sit there. Do you know, Lady Ferringhall, I am proud that your sister permits me to call myself her friend. He gave you a poison.
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