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“I cannot pretend that I am glad to see you, Lady Ferringhall,” he said quietly. It was not for a week or a month. You were with your mother, the two of you huddled like thieves, laughing at the silly women who tried to shield themselves from rain by cowering under empty baskets and shawls. But it was under false names, so I dare say it ain’t valid. As I hope for mercy, I speak the truth!— let him deny it if he can. They traveled to distant places, had an apartment in Constantinople and a villa in Paris.
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