He kissed her at the door. She declined and finished with a few of her favorite excerpts from Scheherazade. ’ Gerald stood back, and watched her cross the room to the closed French doors. He would pick a random member of the ever-shifting household for the sake of example. But they were too late. Crossing several fields, newly mown, or filled with lines of tedded hay, she arrived, not without great exertion, at the summit of a hill. If hate could kill, Ramage would have been killed by a flash of hate. She hated the manor. Everything.
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