He looked melancholy enough, it is true. He tugged at the overly large hooded sweatshirt, which she unzipped and let fall to the ground. Never had she seemed to him so much like Anna. Spurlock had sensed what had gone completely over McClintock's head—that this was the playing of a soul in damnation. “It is about your sister, Lady Ferringhall. They had not so far been of much personal interest to Gerald, but tonight was different. I'd have got something nice.
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