“He says you are frigid, Madame. Ennison,” he said, “it is for you to cut in at Lady Angela’s table. But I was sorry for poor Jack—as I am still, and hoped he would mend. She exhaled, feeling the tension drain from her shoulders and arms. Time was moving so fast, she could no longer count the days since Gosse had come to her with his preposterous suggestion at the Coq d’Or, where they were staying and where he had robbed her and left her and Martha to their fate. She was furiously angry. “Lucy, have you noticed that I don’t even own a dog?” He spoke into her hair.
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