She leaned back in the corner of the cab with a little sigh of relief. ‘I wish you joy of the wench. ” “And what do you think I ought to do?” “Exactly!” He lifted a paper-weight and dabbed it gently down again. They were silent for a time. A dry cough's the trumpeter of death. It’s all nonsense. Then he could hear Hilary breathing beside him, and from outside the muted twittering of birds. She acted as her mother had taught her to.
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