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‘She would not tell me. ” “I suppose,” said Constance, stencilling away at bright pink petals, “it’s our lot. His gaze dropped to the black garment that covered her. ” She said to them, raising her head to speak, her voice unsteady. Already she missed all of her fine things, her linens and leather bound books. ’ ‘No, no, go and fetch the men to the house. A white house that she often found charming loomed gray and ashen, its gardens shorn for the coming winter.

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