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against the stone wall and swallowed, trying to gain control over his beating heart and his palm<br />
brushed against the rosebush, a thorn scratching the skin and bringing a sharp line of blood to the<br />
surface. He raised his palm to his mouth and sucked it.<br />
“Strike me if you will,” Anne said. “You can strike me morning and night if you wish, and yet it will<br />
not change the truth. That you brought me here on a sea of false promises, that you are a man who<br />
cannot hold his drink, who crashes about in a stupor and barks orders at people too afraid to<br />
challenge him. And it will not change the fact that the woman in that portrait, your own Angel of<br />
Hever, is not Anne Arborton. It is Dorinda Spencer.”
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