I admit it. “My dear,” the letter ran, “I have to tell you that your sister Gwen has offended your father very much. ” “Lady Ferringhall—alone?” Ennison exclaimed. After all, the Wastrel was in luck: he was alone. The looming face was 71 over her own once again, and arms as strong as iron bars held her down. She was ashamed of herself for the simple gladness she felt wash over her as the infant’s screams ended. Shall we say at half-past seven?” She rose from her chair.
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