And through it all, like a golden thread on a piece of tapestry, weaving in and out of the patterns, the unspoken longing for love. The sergeant had not seen it for he understood nothing of what she told him. Read that letter, Thames—my lord marquis, I mean. The house will be well rid of him, for a more idle, good-for-nothing reprobate never crossed its threshold. She had eaten them, murdered them routinely, and yet he loved her still. Don’t stand gawping, man. At this point a carriage with servants in sumptuous liveries was stationed.
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