” A shade of concern darkened Carol Diedermayer’s face. She tended the twins while the Clotilde was in Sebastian’s private chambers, a place she gave a wide berth. You know you don’t mean it. Are you going to write a novel?” “Not I,” she answered gaily. Their momentary absence seemed to have worked wonders; for now the most perfect understanding appeared to subsist between them. “Believe me, I know.
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