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I doubt I hold any interest for him anymore. And don’t tell me what you’ve been up to, dashing off to Remenham House with that Kimble lad, and Lord knows what besides, because I don’t want to know. He held her hand in his, cupped together like a pair of shells for the rest of the hour. All the world about her seemed to be—how can one put it?—in wrappers, like a house when people leave it in the summer.
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