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Thinking of Mantua, she wandered to the courtyard. But some day she would find a place to love: there would be rosy apples on the boughs, and there would be flurries of snow blowing into her face. ‘It is seldom enough I am visited by anyone at all, let alone a personable young redcoat. They found Ruth reading to Spurlock, whose shoulders and head were propped by pillows. The ragged edge. Annabel, tell me that you did not wish me dead. Opposite to her was a sallow-visaged young man, whose small tie seemed like a smudge of obtusively shiny black across the front of a high close-drawn collar. .
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