‘It is in no way your affair, monsieur, and you will unhand me at once. ‘Do please continue,’ Gerald begged, deceptively docile. She imagined herself on a barren 41 plain, post-Apocalypse, convulsing, waiting to die with the cockroach. “Well!” she declared good-humouredly. The estates must, ere long, revert to Sir Rowland.
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