He was leaning against a window frame, his hat in his hand. ” “Then she has never been my wife. ‘Is there a resemblance?’ ‘This is Mary Remenham?’ ‘That is my late niece, yes. Even now she could trace the outline of his shape behind the left-hand curtain. “How did you hear that?” Lucy’s brows knitted. I thought that he was dead. ’ *** Martha sniffed dolefully, scrubbing at her reddened eyes with a large square of damp linen.
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