“I cannot pretend that I am glad to see you, Lady Ferringhall,” he said quietly. “So am I. Her husband stared at her over the candle flame. He stalked her, he stared at her, he craved her, he sidled slinking and propitiatory and yet relentlessly toward her, until at last she awoke from the suffocating nightmare nearness of his approach, and lay awake in fear and horror listening to the unaccustomed sounds of the hotel. ‘You’re either mad, or in love.
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