The spinster saw herself growing warm again in the morning sunshine of youth —a flaring ember before the hearth grew cold. Looked all over that dratted convent of yours—or at least Trodger and the men did so—but no sign of them. “It is, if anything, a little above the average,” Brendon admitted. “How did you find me?” He asked. “Call me Annabel. But you have, haven’t you?’ He tutted again.
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