After a long fifteen seconds, she pulled her head back into the seat, looking at his face from the close angle, his nose huge and out of perspective, his eyes like round blue pearls. Jackson. And her kind of love forgives everything and anything but infidelity. ‘Do you tell me that my disreputable son had the infernal insolence to pass you off as that whoring Frenchwoman’s daughter?’ His answer was in their faces. In one hand she carried a long-stalked red rose, dripping with dew, in the other the post-bag. “I know.
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