The small predator subconsciously acknowledged the larger one. She heard her husband’s heavy tread descending the stairs, and the wheels of his carriage as he drove off. “You didn’t expect that I should kiss you?” “How was I to know that a man would—would think it was possible—when there was nothing—no love?” “How did I know there wasn’t love?” That silenced her for a moment. Stanley decided to treat that as irrelevant. His was the Latin turn of thinking; he had fallen in love at thirteen, and he was still capable—he prided himself—of falling in love. . .
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