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The man was my husband. Lucy dug out an old light gray cotton miniskirt that had shrunk on Shari in the wash. He held her eyes. The arrangement had been made by the town matchmaker, a frightening old oak of a man. She had gone into Morgan's one afternoon for a bag of salt. Their houses became a refuge of ill repute, the source of rumor and intrigue in the highest echelons of society. The unpleasant oily chill of fever overtook her body, and she watched in horror as Sebastian carried her to his bed on his shoulder like a sack of flour. There are also the letters which were scattered about Wild's room after the murder of Sir Rowland.
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