They were alike in one phase—loveless and lonely. He too was flushed and ruffled; one side of his collar had slipped from its stud and he held a hand to the corner of his jaw. Gianfrancesco ran from the room, tearing at his hair. She loped forward on unnaturally long legs and arms that swung loosely. One post-midnight meeting, she could stand it no longer. Annabel passed on with a strained nod to her sister, and Sir John’s bow was a miracle of icy displeasure.
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