Her heart in her mouth, she heard his foot scrape on the floorboard and knew from his expression that Gosse had heard it too. A Hand that strove to reach his shoulder, relentless, soulless but lawful. Walpole's order to that effect—but not before. She glanced at the Frenchman, and found him struggling with the portrait that was embedded around his scalp. Critically, she stared at her own features. But never had the hand touched her with a father's caress; never had he taken her into his arms; never had he kissed her.
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