Stanley’s pace slackened. The room was worse than pokey, it was shabby; and the view from the window, of chimney pots and slate roofs, wholly uninspiring. She has even found them accommodation in the house where she is putting up herself. Her safety lay in pretense—that what she saw was as a tale twice told. She tried surreptitiously to reach her own dagger, in its cunning hiding place in her petticoat. He savored the last solo, the coda. ‘Cousin? But I am a fool.
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