She hated being angry, the uselessness of it all, the frustration. ‘You damned little fool! How dared you steal my sword?’ Her eyes flew open. "Bury her in Willesden churchyard, as she requested, on Sunday," said Jack. " "No," replied Sir Rowland, who appeared completely prostrated. I slaved over it, contacted half a dozen genealogy groups and came up with zilch.
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