She walked through the office to the door, aimlessly. During this dreadful pause the wretched man felt for his sword. "Close the door!" commanded Trenchard, impatiently. But such is the perversity of the human that frequently thereafter he purposely crooked the part in his hair, to give her the excuse to fetch the comb. “I don’t think our engagement can go on,” she plunged, and felt exactly that loss of breath that comes with a dive into icy water. She was powerless to move from her chair. Lucy sighed, finding it odd to switch roles as she had over the past weeks. Saviour's Stairs.
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