‘What are you, a nincompoop? She was Nicholas’s wife, of course. She's my mealticket. That did not sound like the name the young man had offered in the tower of the water-clock. ‘They’ve gone, miss,’ came the answer, muffled through the panel door. I do not wish to blow off a head, you understand. Further on, there was a small chandler's shop, where Jack observed an old woman seated at the counter, attended by a little girl. Lady Trafford, supposed to be childless, broken in health and spirits, frail both in mind and body, is not likely to make another marriage.
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