Perhaps it was loneliness. It had been part of her wedding trousseau, a gift from her family to his. She was retuning, fifths spilling from the sliver of light underneath the door like milk. “All your dreadful scientific things?” he said, with a smile that Miss Klegg thought extraordinarily kindly. Very well, then. Moreover, atrociously and inexorably, he allowed it to appear ever and again in horrible gleams that he suspected there was some man in the case. “Thank you.
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