She possessed what he affected to despise, but secretly worshipped—the innate charm of breeding. She rehearsed the story of her forlorn long lost mother in her head, what she would say to the theorymongers. ‘There’s a surgeon on his way, and my men are under orders to do whatever is needful. Only an undermaid I was then. Gin Lane's the nearest road to the churchyard. ’ Melusine stifled a giggle.
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