’ ‘Unless it is Captain Roding,’ put in Lucilla Froxfield from the curved back sofa on the other side of the fireplace. She felt scrawny, lanky, badly dressed in a baggy black T-shirt, sweaty, not at all beautiful; not even pretty. And all the old—the old trick of shrinking up like a snail at a touch. ‘Pray do not trouble yourself, Saling.
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