The rain smelled of the Tyrrhenian Sea, which lay only a few paces beyond the manor's white sea-soaked walls. Annabel passed on with a strained nod to her sister, and Sir John’s bow was a miracle of icy displeasure. “I think,” began Ann Veronica, “that you don’t realize—” He disregarded her entirely. Lucy knocked again. C. She pulled her veil down, and he knew that silence was best.
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