A familiar ache of wanting made itself more insistent in her belly. You cannot—shall not retreat. ’” She played “If I Were a Rich Man,” adding syrupy trills and flourishes at every phrase. She tried surreptitiously to reach her own dagger, in its cunning hiding place in her petticoat. “I will tell you something if you like. ” John’s father, Thomas, strode into the front hall at that moment in his golf clothes.
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