But he died when he was a child—long ago—long ago—long ago. He seemed so clean anyway, his fair 215 skin, his light brown hair, there almost seemed to be no point. Wood's bed-chamber—it was locked, with the key left in it. In his way he was critical. " "You are heiress to the Trenchard property," rejoined Jonathan, "one of the largest estates in Lancashire. She crawled underneath the soft white sheets, reclining and pulling the blankets up to her chin.
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