Lance, not here. Annabel clutched at herthroat in eloquent recall. Abruptly he asked her, Do you love Gorlois? Viviane had asked her this, and she had said that it did not matter. That left her free.
He'd been stretched on the sofa in his shirtsleeves. Gorlois had betrayed his High King; whatever she, Igraine, had done or left undone, Gorlois was marked for death, and by his treason he had deserved it. She put out her arms and said, Come here, Morgaine. He'd been so sweet, so tender, so solicitous of her comfort.
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