"Winifred Wood will never marry, unless the grave can give up its dead. ” “Try what?” She asked, coolly assessing his lithe hips. ” He played it cool, but he had seen it in her face. Her foster father had been outside for most of the morning, working on trimming the maple trees and mowing the lawn. This formality irked her: she wanted to play a little, romp. The fire still burned brightly. What can she be? The wife of a country tradesman, or a duchess? And such a meek little husband too. It would surely be only common politeness to drop her a hint—a fellow countrywoman too. " "You need not," replied Jack, in a tone of the deepest compunction.
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