My name is Ferringhall—Sir John Ferringhall. She set her fingers in the hair and tugged, drawing him to a sitting posture and stooping so that her eyes would be on the level with his when he awoke. When they started getting on each other’s nerves, she blamed herself at first. But through the fault of that pig, who dared to call himself Valade and masquerade in society under her birthright. You'll find those young ladies extremely agreeable acquaintances.
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