There was a huge desk of heavily carved ebony at one end, and at the centre, a couple of straight-backed chairs stood before a great fireplace at the outer wall, flanked by two bookshelves with casement windows above. But there was, it insisted, no mobility in his face, no movement, nothing about him that warmed. “Nigel, Nigel,” she cried. “When did you get home last night, Lucy?” Cathy interrogated through a yawn.
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