"Where is the boy?" demanded Sir Rowland. She made a curious movement toward her niece, then suddenly, convulsively, she dabbed down something lumpy on the table and turned to follow her brother. What was it she had expected? Surely her moods were getting a little out of hand. She was obliged to concede that his features were pleasing, his strength and vitality attractive; and there was no denying how well this uniform of a militia suited his figure, which was lean and powerful both. None saw, though all felt, his presence, and heard the thunder of his voice. She tightened her bandage and sat back, biting her lip. She made a slow tour of the front of the house without success, and then started back along the rooms behind, dragging open the drapes each time to get just enough light to recognise what was on the walls. This was number 13, Montague Street, familiarly spoken of in the neighbourhood as “White’s. They did not spend most days together. She found pieces of it on the blacktop near the green dumpster, amazingly small pieces considering the fabric’s original heft.
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