Just as they reached the eastern outlet of the churchyard— where the tall elms cast a pleasant shade over the rustic graves—a momentary stoppage took place. Lucy grabbed his shirtsleeve, whispering on tiptoe. He was sipping a glass of cold gin and water, and smoking a short black pipe. "Good work. . In each pause she could sense his growing trepidation. He was nearly wincing. ‘At this present, I must appropriate Lady Bicknacre. He had to know the truth, Melusine. If so I shall have to leave.
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