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Chapter 66 - Sixty Six
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... he wheels of an elegant, white carriage, crested with a coat of arms Carcel recognized far too well.
He stood by the drawing room window, a cup of coffee, untouched and cold, in his hand. He had been standing there for an hour, a silent, brooding statue, waiting. He had, with his own, cursed hand, written the letter. He had signed his name. He had, essentially, invited his own
replacement, his own rival, into this house.
The bitter, jealous, possessive taste of it had bee ...
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