\" He rose and departed. “I want to speak to you. "What poet was that?" "Stevenson. Only au revoir. ’ ‘Begging your pardon, miss, but I think as how you ought to go back to London,’ Jack ventured. ‘Yes, that is reasonable. Lady Trafford, supposed to be childless, broken in health and spirits, frail both in mind and body, is not likely to make another marriage. I don’t want to Bowdlerize Shakespeare. ’ ‘Merci. Vorsack. . ” He grabbed a sword from the wall of arms. He had done this a dozen times on the way from his office. “Come in. A gust of irrational impatience blew through her being.
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