Your aunt liked the pheasant. She’d prefer that I read classic literature, of course, but she only reads paperback romance novels, so she can’t exactly complain. She disengaged her hands and stood up. They were a dull grey, but the dark frizzed hair that framed her face was attractive. Also he had said—laughing in that way with his eyes which made a flutter in her chest— that Prudence will find an Englishman to marry her.
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