She found Rhea trapped under a rock, her skeletal head exposed. Lady Trafford uttered a prolonged scream, and fainted. “Quite right,” she said. Her hair had begun to grow back, it now swept to her shoulders. He felt her observance and warmed to it. The blow had brought him back to the realm of sober thought. It was her past now, not Annabel’s. The moon had arisen, and everything could be as plainly distinguished as during the day. Who were you looking for tonight? One of the émigrés? There were several in there.
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