"How so?" asked Wild, curiously. Ray Plote was most certainly feeling restless, what if he had left the house for the evening? She needed to eat. ‘Oh, peste. “You are talking like a boy. “Yes. As she did so, the ruffles to the jacket of her riding habit fell away, exposing livid blue bruises about her wrist, ugly in the light of day from the window at their back. All characters and events in this publication, other than those clearly in the public domain, are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
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