Her recent attitude towards him was undoubtedly a pose. He saw her young and graceful back as she descended from the carriage, severely ignoring him, and recalled a glimpse he had of her face, bright and serene, as his train ran out of Wimbledon. Pure luck! If the boy had grown a moustache or a beard, a needle in the haystack would have been soft work. Rhea spun round and sank her teeth into Lucy’s arm. It clicked and the bookshelf was once more intact. She rambles continually about Jack, and her husband, and that wretch Jonathan, to whom, as far as can be gathered from her wild ravings, she attributes all her misery.
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