He built her the most beautiful castle 242 in the world in the desert, carving fountains where real water ran and gardens in a place where no plant had ever bloomed. Her husband quickly joined the fray, making her giggle and laugh. When he had finished he took up the wine list and ordered a bottle of dry champagne. . “You are Sir John Ferringhall,” she repeated. Beyond was an avenue of tall poplars that rose like columns, disappearing into undulating hills that were black with sleeping houses and fertile soil.
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