The small bed’s hospital corners had been put into disarray by Michelle’s crying fit. Sir John was not used to such glances, and he liked them. Of course. No sterner head was ever beheld beneath the cowl of a monk, or the bonnet of an inquisitor. She opened this and scrambled out—a thing she had not done for five long years of adolescence— upon the leaded space above the built-out bath-room on the first floor. She turned the gas up in her little sitting-room, and sank wearily into an easy chair.
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