“—and your aunt—” For a time he searched for the mot juste. “You are Sir John Ferringhall,” she repeated. ‘I’m not going to arrest you, young Jack—yet. ” Ennison dropped the evening paper which he had been pretending to read. She would often steal away to tryst with him in the orchard, even now she felt her loins grow warm with the memory of his ardor. She came to befriend the female mistresses, some who were even so audacious as to bring their children into the house. She tried not to notice how much attention Martin Chen had been paying her, but he had been bold enough to speak to her the other day. She could not be more than twenty; and though want and other suffering had done the work of time, had wasted her frame, and robbed her cheek of its bloom and roundness, they had not extinguished the lustre of her eyes, nor thinned her raven hair. ’ Melusine’s eyes flashed.
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