Their conversation fell to quiet again, his hand still a heavy and sturdy presence on her waistline.  She couldn’t get over the feeling that she knew him, which was silly, because she knew everyone at this dance.  But she  knew him.  She just didn’t know how or who.  From the limited information of his deduction, she now confidently believed he was a pureblood.  But which one?  Was he Sacred Twenty-Eight?  Did he have any idea who he was dancing with?