The season was ripe for mating, she thought to herself bitterly. A beachcomber in embryo, and she had lent a hand through habit as much as through pity. ‘That there governess didn’t like it, of course, me being the lodgekeeper’s girl, and Martha just a country wench like me. She was slowed down by the icy wind that punctuated itself in screams around houses and trees.
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