And through it all, like a golden thread on a piece of tapestry, weaving in and out of the patterns, the unspoken longing for love. No, never mind about thanking me. Lady Ferringhall listened, and her cheeks grew pale. She had been obliged to spend the night in that fateful bedchamber, the faithful Kimble—who had foraged at a nearby inn, bringing back a large pie and a jug of porter for his mistress—guarding the door outside.
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