Ann Veronica said nothing. The bump was coarse and didn’t feel right. Jonathan, however, paid no sort of attention to this demonstration of hatred. Dizzily, she grabbed at the mantel for support and, resting her head on her hands, paid no heed to a betraying sound behind her—until an unexpected arm encircled her. She rode him gently. “And all the rest of it perhaps is a song. But I never found any truth in the saying. Her husband stared at her over the candle flame. He suspected a trap. Profligate women are never reclaimed.
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