She was posing before the mirror, critically, miserably, defensively, and perhaps bewilderedly. She closed the book that she had been pretending to read and gathered her black umbrella and her backpack, a childish accoutrement she despised. You don’t deserve it, but he does. Her companion was a portly handsome man, also dressed in a full suit of the deepest mourning, with the finest of lace at his bosom and wrists, and a sword in a black sheath by his side. ” The change in Lady Ferringhall’s manner was subtle but unmistakable.
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