Wood's favourite sitting-room, and her image was so intimately associated with it, neither the carpenter nor his daughter could muster courage to enter it before. She infused menace into her voice. 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. But don’t run away with the idea that I’m hanging out for a wife at last, because I’m not. I have fulfilled my part of our marriage contract. . 8.
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