She tucked her stick under her arm and re-read Manning’s letter. She was clad in fresh linen, but still wore the riding-habit she had appropriated, having sponged out the spots of blood late last night and left it to dry in the kitchens. He had something across his knees. The walls rocked, the footrail of the bed wavered, and the girl's head had the nebulosity of a composite photograph.
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