He patted the hand on his sleeve. The wastrel, the ne'er-do-well, who went mostly nobly to a fine end. She removed it. She wanted to cry out upon herself for the uttermost fool in existence. Standing before a mirror set on a dresser between the windows, two hands frozen in the act of adjusting a wide-brimmed hat on her head, stood a lady in a dark riding habit, her startled features turned towards the door. Mercifully, the Peters had moved to Rhode Island about six months after the tragedy.
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