She never had been much of a looker, but she had stopped worrying about such things long ago. Spurlock slumped in his chair, weak and empty. "Adieu, my worthy uncle. ‘And that Suzanne, the sister of my cousin the vicomte, must choose between Monsieur Charvill and her brother. “Idiotic, isn’t it?” “Absolutely,” she agreed coldly. He was not Meysey Hill, but an Englishman of business, and he had only a small income. As she hoisted her skirts near her waist, she thought ruefully of the last time she had worn such an elaborate gown, sometime near 1910 when petticoats were still considered hip everyday garb.
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