’ She counted off on her fingers. Her heartbeat raced, her limbs turned to water, and it was only by a miracle and the strength of the arms that held her that she remained standing on her feet. No one had lived here since old man Remenham had died some eighteen months ago, for the heir, so it was rumoured, was a relative with property of his own. But De Maupassant—sheer off! Stick to Dickens and Thackeray and Hugo. No one could take the place for anything but what it was, and even Gosse hesitated in the doorway.
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