’ Her lashes fluttered. You must forgive the poet’s license I take. The unpleasant oily chill of fever overtook her body, and she watched in horror as Sebastian carried her to his bed on his shoulder like a sack of flour. ’ She advanced towards him. “You seem to be taking our little joke more seriously than it deserves, Ferringhall,” he remarked. We'll get together this afternoon; and you can pretend that I am your father.
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