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His arms slipped around her waist as they were on the doorstep and he kissed her lips sweetly. Sheppard, which she gratefully declined. If the young ladies were dowerless, which seemed likely, their attire at least—so Lucilla assured him in a whisper—was of the first stare. The Jacobite IV. He had heard everything. “She’s my wife,” the man muttered. Annabel Pellissier was not like the others, he said.
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