Moving back to the corner again, she ran a hand back over the leather-bound books—which, she realised, were not books at all. “Solitary walks?” “That’s the point of them. You’re a little late, you must remember, and we are punctual people here. ‘You must think me a fool, mademoiselle. "You're wanted. Father— dead. The salt air was fresher than the stale air in the manor.
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