’ ‘Couldn’t help but do so, ma’am,’ said Mrs Ibstock. The larger problem at hand was drugging her foster sister, Shari, into a deep sleep. The gallant woollen-draper was now in his thirty-sixth year. “There was a man called Montague Hill,” she said hoarsely, “but he is dead. He could neither stifle nor deaden that. I couldn't accept anything from you. The chair had extension arms over which a man might comfortably dangle his legs. A florid-looking young woman rose up and accosted him eagerly.
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