I have never been wrong about the sex of an unborn child. So often as she had herself manipulated a dagger, she could not mistake the shape that pressured across her chest, or the sharp point that dug below her bosom. He led her unerringly, pushing her down the narrow stairway that had been the servants’ access to the upper floors, and thence through a small door that led into the chapel. Cathy stood in the bedroom hallway in her faded blue bathrobe.
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