There was a concerted gasp of shock from both the black-garbed lad and the coachman. He leaned forward to better drink her in. Later, she understood his reasons; and it had now become habit. Spurlock stared at Ruth across the rim of his bowl. The spinster saw herself growing warm again in the morning sunshine of youth —a flaring ember before the hearth grew cold. He knocked at the door. If you don’t like it, I won’t be mad, I promise. Gianfrancesco had been talked into the arrangement only because the drivers that had handled the job for generations were sick or dead. She had eaten them, murdered them routinely, and yet he loved her still. Apparently I’m not to exist yet. She reads novels—and history—and all sorts of things.
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