‘Could she have been a spy, after all?’ ‘Oh, she’s not a spy,’ Gerald answered, almost absently. The same pale white buttocks, the same freckles in the same unchanging patterns on her collarbone that all of her mother’s potions had never been able to erase. We married, and for a time we were happy. The winter of 1348 seemed to last an eternity, but the Pestilence struck in one day. “We will convince him now to the contrary,” Annabel answered.
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