She could feel Martin’s eyes boring into her as she entered the room, her own personal Farhat. It had been part of her wedding trousseau, a gift from her family to his. She could smell the savory tinge of his sweat in the air. ‘Don’t put me at the necessity of marrying the abominable little wretch. Good-bye aunt. “She must,” said Mr. “To-night we are as we have always been. I have Remenham House which is my right. .
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