“Do you mind if I tweeze your eyebrows?” Shari asked her. ‘You give me an excellent excuse to have in the Madeira,’ said his hostess, reaching for a silver hand bell and setting it pealing. Who was he?” “Intriguing. "Where are you?" "Here," replied Mrs. “You are Sir John Ferringhall,” she repeated. “Vee,” she said, “come home. Too late now. Lucy had baked the apple and pumpkin pies, carefully molding the flour crusts and adding extra teaspoonfuls of allspice and cinnamon while no one looked. A nurse came hurrying up. It was easy to discern Gianfrancesco’s mood. And through it all, like a golden thread on a piece of tapestry, weaving in and out of the patterns, the unspoken longing for love.
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