The air was sweet with the perfume of flowers, and the melody of murmuring insects, the blue sky was cloudless, the heat of the sun was tempered by the heather-scented west wind. ‘It is pretty. This woman knows me—’ throwing the remark at Lucilla ‘—and that I am the daughter of Mary Remenham. It was perfectly legitimate. ‘Say then, Jacques, you have followed him?’ she demanded of the blackgarbed footman. Used to play together, we did, all over Remenham House. “Hi John.
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