“—and your aunt—” For a time he searched for the mot juste. “You silly fool,” he said. “Please forgive me coming up, Miss Pellissier, but you have not been down to dinner for three nights, and—Brendon and I—we were afraid that you might be unwell. His face was aquiline but sweet, the years had not yet taken the blush from his cheeks and his lips were similarly rubefacient. It was there in the breast pocket, stiff and legal looking.
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