At the threshold of the study he bade her good-night; but he did not touch her forehead with his lips. He looked like a French boy soldier she had once glimpsed marching towards his death in one of the battles they would later call the Hundred Years War. “My dear,” she began, with an affectionate hand on Ann Veronica’s shoulder, “I do SO wish you would realize how it grieves your father. Easily I could have killed you. I told him that I would help stage your kidnapping.
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