Sir James Thornhill, then, rose. She came in while he was still in the throes, conviction battling with commonsense, his own apprehension. “It was inevitable,” he declared. “I made two fruit pies and now I have no one to eat them. It would be very good to be Capes’ friend. Her husband stared at her over the candle flame. He had invited himself to dine with her merely to watch her table manners.
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