For she knew that men married to get something. Kneebone's cheeks glowed with rage, and he set down the wine untasted, while Blueskin resumed his song. Read that letter, Thames—my lord marquis, I mean. All through that brief but measureless space of time during which wonder kept him silent, as fear did her, she cowered there, a limp helpless object. I loved her beyond anything in heaven or on earth—to idolatry. I made a wrong choice, it seems—but my voice remains.
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