It was your sister who married Sir John Ferringhall the other day, wasn’t it?” Anna nodded. ” “I wish you good luck,” she answered. ” John traced his finger over the meeting point of her breast and her ribcage as they lay naked on his unmade bed. He wore a battered sunhelmet, a loin-cloth and a pair of dilapidated canvas shoes. Mind, I, Baptist Kettleby, say so. A single blanket constituted his sole covering at night.
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