As she did so, the ruffles to the jacket of her riding habit fell away, exposing livid blue bruises about her wrist, ugly in the light of day from the window at their back. When I carried you up here like a bride, that is the way I wanted us to be, Mary Lucia. You forget all the mass of training and tradition and instinct that go to make him a tolerable master. ‘Kill him? Oh.
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