Lucy could see her striding down a Parisian catwalk quite easily. . She was not squeamish—although the sight of the sergeant’s ominous preparations had severely tried her fortitude—but Kimble’s white face plagued her conscience. Melusine came in, picked up the lantern, and heard the library door bang open just as the panel clicked closed behind her. ’ ‘What, a common soldier?’ ‘He was not a common soldier. He’s a prig to the finger-tips, is Sir John—doesn’t know what an artist is. He was a large oafish man, a man that seemed deceptively harmless, and some thought him slightly retarded. She was aware of it now as if it were a voice shouting outside a house, shouting passionate verities in a hot sunlight, a voice that cries while people talk insincerely in a darkened room and pretend not to hear.
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