Her unnatural calm was giving way. " "Bah!" returned the woollen-draper. They heard voices inside but stood for a full thirty seconds looking at each other. The day was unseasonably humid and dark, a thick fog having descended over manicured lawns. She was aware of it now as if it were a voice shouting outside a house, shouting passionate verities in a hot sunlight, a voice that cries while people talk insincerely in a darkened room and pretend not to hear. Behind the poet came Sir James Thornhill. After all, this could never be the black sheep.
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