She met the keen grey eyes of a clean-shaven man, between forty and fifty, quietly dressed in professional attire. My mother died the day I was born; that’s what they tell me. As she averted her gaze, a terrible idea crossed her. I leaned over and looked at him—he was quite still. ‘That is what she wants, is it?’ ‘Do you blame her?’ he said stiffly. Drummond had made an abominable mistake.
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