Things hung for a moment in an awkward silence. Into this new world, vivid with colour, came Spurlock, receptively. She could not go to him with a preachment against strong drink; she knew from experience that such a plan would be wasted effort. She had traversed perhaps three bookshelves, passed across the door that must lead to the hall, turned the corner, and was just about to reach the fireplace when she abruptly became aware that something under her fingers had felt wrong. "Fear nothing, Sir," said the man, in a voice which Thames instantly recognised as that of Blueskin. ‘Dear me.
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