‘I do not know if even I can do anything now. The nun on the threshold was of middle age and heavily built, her back uneven from toil and her hands roughened. It was a bizarre sight, a miniature manor, replicated fully, walled in gray limestone. The young lady with frizzled hair, whom Brendon had pointed out to her as Miss Ellicot, leaned forward from her hostess’s side. His grip twisted her wrist. For what she lacked in appearance, Sheila compensated in gossip. She nuzzled his chest and he breathed deeply of the scent of her Finesse conditioner. The spinsters—who on the morrow would vanish out of the girl's life for ever—had already left their imprint upon her imagination. She wanted his attention, but so did everyone else. Arriving at the chapel, their wonder increased. But his own ferocity was less now that she was disarmed.
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