“Why should one pretend?” she whispered. Lucy felt the hairs on her neck rise. She was very pale, and there was a look of fear in her eyes. Beyond was a chaise longue, covered with cushions and shawls laid anyhow across it, together with a discarded tapestry in the making, and a scattering of woollen threads about it. What sort of proof? There are no papers at Remenham House. ‘Always he is busy about my affairs.
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