She hunted the markets for bread and treats so they could feast during the day. The last of Jarvis’s harlots must have departed in a hurry, for she had apparently left a roomful of clothes. ‘What are you, a nincompoop? She was Nicholas’s wife, of course. Her eyebrows, pulled down by the stress of thought, now resumed their normal arches; and pleased with her discovery, she smiled. Many little things had contributed to that decision.
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