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CHAPTER THIRTY THREE

“Destiny… ”

Oh, how lovely and just what she was needing, after that little scene with Lyon. Divers O’Roarke, in her face, in her hall, her lovely hall, that always looked so beautiful at Christmas when she and Orwell stood in its luscious pine-garlanded center, dispensing steaming cups of mulled apple cider—what he didn’t dispense to himself anyway--and hot fruit pies—fortunately he wasn’t much interested in them--to the servants.