He carried her in his arms up the steps, like a bride on her honeymoon. Idiote. She had imagined she had drowned them altogether. ‘But who was he, Gerald?’ ‘A damned condottiere,’ exploded Gerald, forgetting his company. "I'll call you when you're wanted. ’ She had given nothing away. Woman's love of silk is not set by fashion; it is bred in the bone; and somewhere, somehow, a woman will have her bit of silk. Fortescue’s steps, and encountered him with an air of artless surprise.
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