Her long incarceration at the convent in Blaye had taught her to be dismissive of her own appearance. Annabel passed on with a strained nod to her sister, and Sir John’s bow was a miracle of icy displeasure. " "You hear, my son," said the widow eagerly. ‘It is Yol—’ She broke off abruptly, her face collapsing into an expression of acute consternation. “I want a plain word with you about all this.
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