You creep around in a nun’s habit, peering into a private ballroom. The knots and broken pale that made the garden-fence scalable, and gave access to the fields behind, were still to be traced. Nice goings on. The rest of the crowd followed suit with weak laughter. I’d only have to do something about it, and that I can’t. ‘I suppose you think I can’t manage it myself,’ had complained Captain Roding sarcastically.
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