Stanley came home at a quarter to six—an earlier train by fifteen minutes than he affected—his sister met him in the hall with a hushed expression. She had changed into dungarees herself and kept her hair as it was. He knew what he knew. ” Sir John stamped his letters, brushed his hat, and carefully gave his moustache an upward curl before the looking-glass. “Sebastianus? Where did my husband go?” He smiled at her gently, patronizingly, as he prevented her from movement or escape. Daily contact with actual human beings all the more inclined her toward the imaginative.
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