” “I suppose,” said Constance, stencilling away at bright pink petals, “it’s our lot. I’m not discussing Shakespeare. Melusine ran up the stairway after him, her point flailing to frighten him into allowing her access to the chapel. Despite him, it was the beauty that she had inherited from her mother they had used to gain the betrothal, and it had not been easy. . He could remember when women laid away their gowns in lavender—as this girl's mother had. ’ He frowned again.
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