As she did so, the ruffles to the jacket of her riding habit fell away, exposing livid blue bruises about her wrist, ugly in the light of day from the window at their back. Only her face was clear, frail and delicate, almost flower-like, with the sad haunting eyes ever watching his. His eyebrows arched, knotting in the middle. Why? Love was a word of God's, and yet her father had denied it—denied it to the Book, denied it to his own flesh and blood. "I don't know his name. The baby did not strike at Sebastian. She studied the face and tried to visualize the body, clothed in the dress which had created the spinsters' astonishment.
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