He now understood her interest in Taber, as he called himself: habit, a twice-told tale. It was your sister who married Sir John Ferringhall the other day, wasn’t it?” Anna nodded. As she did so, the ruffles to the jacket of her riding habit fell away, exposing livid blue bruises about her wrist, ugly in the light of day from the window at their back. “But your hair,” he gasped.
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