Anna said nothing. It was decrepit and too large. “You are the Sir John Ferringhall who has bought the Lyndmore estate, are you not?” she remarked. Every other wall comprised bookcases, except where the doors appeared. “I don’t think our engagement can go on,” she plunged, and felt exactly that loss of breath that comes with a dive into icy water. It was hard to meet that gaze.
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