He’s a prig to the finger-tips, is Sir John—doesn’t know what an artist is. Then we can loiter and gossip to our heart’s content. She must speak to Jack. The books would be soaked and ruined in the rain anyway through the thin skin of the pack. Cathy stood in the bedroom hallway in her faded blue bathrobe. ‘Couldn’t reconcile it with my dooty to leave you here—’ A thought made Melusine stop dead, turning to him. Besides, I acted for others, and not for myself.
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