‘I recall my father speaking of you as a Remenham. To him she had always appeared as a mere pleasure-loving parasite—something quite insignificant. If I had never met anything of you at all but a scrap of your skin binding a book, Ann Veronica, I know I would have kept that somewhere near to me. His gaze drawn, Gerald watched him dip to pick up a crushed square of white linen and a starched object that resembled a helmet. This had well nigh been the case with the carpenter. E.
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