Something seemed to dredge up from the recesses of her memory and she brightened. The wine bubbled and seethed; and the exquisite bouquet of oranges permeated the room. It would be swindling. She was to be handed over with her dowry of three thousand Florins, plus her pet bird, six chickens, her mother’s fine linens, a small book of poetry. Sir John stood upon the threshold.
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