![]() ![]() She wasn’t ravishing like Nan Boleyn, nor the mother of his son like Jane, nor yet his ‘rose without a thorn’ - but at least he had admitted his mistake and tried to make amends for calling her a Flanders mare. ![]() She felt sure he had been speaking her epitaph and a flood of long-delayed triumph shot through her, warm as wine. He might equally well have been discussing his wives. She thought they were discussing the fruit. “How kind of you to bring grapes!” exclaimed Kate, bustling forward with a glass of medicine. And the faded eyes that blinked up at her from beneath his sandy lashes were full of fun and affection. He savored it greedily and, after a furtive glance across the room, squeezed her hand with the obscene slyness of an old man who has lived lustily. Deftly she snipped off the fattest grape of all and popped it into his watering mouth. Anne sought in the folds of her skirt for the gold-handled scissors hanging from her belt. ![]()
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