Her husband sat in a chair beside her bed, his head in his hands. They thought that she was her own mother. You need have no apprehensions about him, Sir Rowland. . He left the room, presumably to sleep elsewhere, but the only other room with a fire was the servant’s quarters. “My dear Anna,” he answered. Sniveling brats, little fatherless bastards, you should breathe a sigh of relief.
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