He reeled, and crashed to the floor. “No!” he said aloud at last. Her foster father, Larry, was the hard working son-of-a-bitch type with a disdain for suits. “I cannot pretend that I am glad to see you, Lady Ferringhall,” he said quietly. And I suppose it is too much to expect that any entirely English young lady would be prepared to tolerate me for the remainder of my life. He died in the war. Sir John looked about him, and somehow the laugh died away.
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