A. ’ ‘Who’s bleeding to death?’ demanded Trodger. Gerald’s gaze bored into hers. The candles—for McClintock never used oil in his dining room—were burning low in the sconces. I—I am a lovesick idiot, and not accountable for my actions. Lucy blushed from toes to forehead, feeling her pace accelerate. She could not speak. Nevertheless, Sir John had the look of a man who was enjoying himself. Out of these he selected a faded parchment and restored the rest to safety.
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