She would look up, shake her head, and then go back to her reading or crewelwork. . But it doesn’t alter the situation. ‘Is he meeting you here then, my dear?’ ‘He had better,’ said Lucilla. Wood's bed-chamber—it was locked, with the key left in it. Something or other—she did not catch what—he was damned if he could stand. There was a mad musician, seemingly rapt in admiration of the notes he was extracting from a child's violin.
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