A stack of chimneys, on the house above them, had yielded to the storm, and descended in a shower of bricks and stones. The cold air gave her gooseflesh under her red brocade dress as she slipped outside. Annabel passed on with a strained nod to her sister, and Sir John’s bow was a miracle of icy displeasure. I know now that I was mistaken. Spurling in alarm.
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