But she no longer obsessed over heresy, no longer did she feel cursed by God. Her hair, once red, faded to a thin gray that she kept cut into a practical short bob. Courtlaw, who was sitting by the bedside, bent over him. The Trenchard estates will likewise be mine, for Sir Rowland is no more, and the youth, Thames, will never again see daylight. Without turning or looking in his direction she leaned forwards, her head supported upon her fingers, her elbows upon her knees. She sings better perhaps.
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