Lucy could sense her mental resolution to nip Michelle’s burgeoning obsession with the occult in the bud. It would be too mortifying. ‘Jacques!’ He stopped, but he did not turn. He wore a silk hat a little tilted, and a morning coat buttoned round a tight, contained figure; and a white slip gave a finish to his costume and endorsed the quiet distinction of his tie. Why, then, did he touch it? As he climbed heavily into his chair, she was able to note the little beads of sweat under the cracked nether lip.
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