“Annabel,” she said, “you are my sister, or I would bid you take the flowers if you care for them, and leave the room. Her hands wove through his black hair, luxuriating in its thickness. The unpleasant oily chill of fever overtook her body, and she watched in horror as Sebastian carried her to his bed on his shoulder like a sack of flour. Monsieur Charvill, he is also my cousin.
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