She was her mother’s child, fair of face, doted upon and spoiled by her attentions. One always dreamed of this and never believed it. She hoped fervently that Martin had not divulged his crush to Brown. Swiftly following the sound of knocking, she crossed right and passed through a door near the windows—and found herself in the bookroom. ‘Thank you,’ she said, leaning heavily on his arm for a moment. ” “Then he—and Paris—lied,” Ennison answered. Fame of any sort was folly and she knew better.
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