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“Lovely,” she murmured, her face gleaming in the shadow cast by the canopy of ancient, interlaced branches. “Yes.” But Hunt was looking at her.
“How sweet,” Annabelle mumbled sickly, her eyes closed. “Every woman dreams of being told that she’s preferable to a dead cow.”
“There’s a reason that Miss Peyton and her carnivorous friends are all unwed, Hunt. They’re trouble.
“Every time I see you,” he murmured, “I think you couldn’t possibly become any more beautiful—and you always prove me wrong.”

