Ramage. She sat on the edge of the bed —the wardress was too busy with the flood of arrivals that day to discover that she had it down—and her skin was shivering from the contact of these garments. The brilliant sunshine poured through the window, effecting an oblong block of mote-swimming light. Perhaps, after all, the others were right. “There was a man called Montague Hill,” she said hoarsely, “but he is dead. ‘Word has it that she is English on her father’s side. And now for the fawney— the ring I mean.
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