She sat on the edge of the bed —the wardress was too busy with the flood of arrivals that day to discover that she had it down—and her skin was shivering from the contact of these garments. Spurling, drily. “I hate you because you are the Devil! Rot in Hell!” She was shocked at her own accusation, how she had savored the words. “I might have muddled for a time. Her glasses moved quickly as her glance travelled from face to face. "It's strange the antipathy he bears to Sheppard. You do not need me to remind you of your success at Paris.
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