His spirits began to rise. The theme was a masquerade. Manning regarded her thoughtfully for a moment and stroked his mustache. A moistened velvet touch found her tongue. Her gaze flickered down to his pistol. She inhaled a deep breath of air—London air. And in those days, too, he used to help her mother with her gardening, and hover about her while she stood on the ladder and hammered creepers to the scullery wall.
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