” She sniffled. Then she shrugged. Sheppard, bitterly. There was no such a thing as perfection in a mixed world. Anna picked up an ancient magazine, and began to turn over the pages in a leisurely way. . 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. That last year in Paris, when Annabel and she had lived in different worlds, had often been a nightmare to her. “You wouldn’t.
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