The same pale white buttocks, the same freckles in the same unchanging patterns on her collarbone that all of her mother’s potions had never been able to erase. "Sir Rowland must be gone. I once might have married you for your beauty,—now I marry you for your wealth. Wild, and his uncle, Sir Rowland Trenchard. But for him she might have been alive and happy. "Yes … but dreadfully tired.
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