She could feel Martin’s eyes boring into her as she entered the room, her own personal Farhat. Twenty guineas, mind. Anything. He was perhaps forty-five years of age. Five hours later she tiptoed down the hall and paused at the threshold of what they now called his study. “Next door,” said a spectacled young person of seventeen or eighteen, with an impatient indication of the direction. You are to remain here until you are well.
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