“Why won’t you sleep in my bed tonight, Lucia, where 80 it’s warm?” He asked her one night, teasing but mournful, as she stood in her bedroom doorway in a long white gown. It is I who took the burden of your misdeeds upon my shoulders that you might become Lady Ferringhall. This door was crested with spikes, and guarded on the right by a bristling semicircle of spikes. His physical body was predictably paralyzed with shyness and fear of rejection, barely soothed with a series 51 of blatantly direct requests and compliments.
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