“That’s. “My dear boy,” she exclaimed. The drawers at the moment were too busy to attend to her, and she would have seized the opportunity of examining, unperceived, the assemblage within, through a little curtained window that overlooked the adjoining chamber, if an impediment had not existed in the shape of Baptist Kettleby, whose portly person entirely obscured the view. It is I who took the burden of your misdeeds upon my shoulders that you might become Lady Ferringhall. It was time to disappear, no more Becks, no more Spaghetti Nights, no more afternoon kisses in the park with John Diedermayer. Couldn’t face me with what he’d done, the miserable blackguard.
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