“Julian, please, let’s go to your place. We may meet—who can tell? But I will not be fettered, even though you would make the chains of roses. She was clad in fresh linen, but still wore the riding-habit she had appropriated, having sponged out the spots of blood late last night and left it to dry in the kitchens. Martha had been more to her than that. “I thought you wanted to have a talk to me,” she said.
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