‘So this is Pottiswick’s French spy. There was a hint of tears in her voice. Annabel passed on with a strained nod to her sister, and Sir John’s bow was a miracle of icy displeasure. We’ve done nothing to deserve it. Michelle had warned her of the girl, calling her “Bitchster”. ” Annabel moistened her dry lips with a handkerchief steeped in eau de Cologne. “Please have a seat. He looked at her with a certain curiosity.
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