Once Henry has gone on his way, Anne comes towards me and grabs my wrist. Her fingernails dig into my skin, scratching and burrowing, as though she endeavours to tear my flesh from my bones. “Do you really believe, you little witch, that he will love you any differently from all the rest? Do you think you are so different from me? Do you think yourself better? Well, do not pretend. He will love you and tire of you just as he has done with the rest of us. Except, he made me his Queen. Do not presume to believe that he will treat a weak and ugly little milksop like you any better,” she hisses.
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