She longed to own something lasting, anything, but knew her wishes to be stupid. She sat in a chair in the parlour and regarded the darkening sky through the small casement window. He grew more ardent, sliding her breasts out of the strapless bodice of her gown. She had just this moment past told him that Monsieur Valade came to her after the tragedy, to the convent, from where he married her and brought her to England. Her mouth dry, she made her feet walk on, not daring to utter a word.
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