” She paused again. “A new admirer, Annabel? But what has that to do with your going to England?” “Everything! He is Sir John Ferringhall—very stupid, very respectable, very egotistical. Her hands wove through his black hair, luxuriating in its thickness. Her old nurse’s hands returned the pressure. I would not have him know—now—for the world. She didn’t choose her man. But we're neglecting the punch all this time.
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