“Manning,” she said, and contemplated a figure of inaggressive persistence. But he seized the chance to entrap her fingers, fan and all, and look deeply into her eyes. ‘Do you not understand that I can trust no one—no one?’ ‘That is a pity,’ Gerald said, rising to face her. At least one of them was caught and put away. She did not bother with the backpack despite its due tomorrow status. She did not learn the kind of looks she had been bestowing upon him at a convent. “He is Annabel’s husband,” she reminded him. “Lucy Albert.
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