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a moment of exasperation, snarl something about "that trull." |
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Was that what Simon was willing to accept? Was that more honorable than pushing events about a little so that he or Alinor could openly ask to be married? Was it a greater honor to turn over intact estates than an intact bride? Alinor's hand stabbed the needle into her work as if into a heart. She had called Simon a courtier, but had never thought what that meant aside from attendance upon the King. What of the idle hours? How many shell-pink ears had Simon whispered into? |
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The image of Simon leaning amorously forward came into Alinor's mind, but instead of the bitter bile of jealousy, a giggle rose in her throat. The image was simply false. The laughter died as quickly as it came. Alinor bit her lips and stared unseeingly at her work, her cheeks flaming again. Simon might not lean amorously nor whisper inanities, but he could speak words of love as smoothly as the most practiced seducer. |
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Angry at herself now more than at Simon, Alinor acknowledged that there must be many facets of Simon's life and character that she had overlooked or deliberately ignored. No man who was not a priest or afflicted like the King could reach Simon's age without knowing many women. And the lips that taught her so swiftly and expertly how to kiss gave mute evidence of how well he had known women. |
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Sequentially hot with rage, cold with disappointment, and sick with jealousy, Alinor stabbed viciously at her innocent embroidery. Slowly the turmoil in her mind subsided. How could she be angry with Simon for what he had done before she was born? Before he knew she existed? The sickness subsided. The disappointment and rage followed, leaving emptiness. Alinor was willing to swear that Simon had not looked at another woman all the time he had been at Court. Not only the evidence of her own eyes supported that no- |
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