She carried herself well, whereas her brother slouched, and there was a certain aristocratic dignity about her that she had acquired through her long engagement to a curate of family, a scion of the Wiltshire Edmondshaws. Find them at Remenham House—if you can. He was sipping a glass of cold gin and water, and smoking a short black pipe. He was introduced to Brendon, and a chair was brought by an attentive waiter. She watched them sleep for what seemed hours from the high window until her body grew colder than the stone sill she perched upon. His quiet, kindly smile implied his serene disbelief in any confessible thing. His stories had enchanted her, even if in some deep corner of her heart she guessed they were not entirely true. ‘I dropped the lantern,’ Jack’s muffled voice told her. My wife doesn’t understand, doesn’t understand now. But those days are over—quite over. He followed.
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