The knots and broken pale that made the garden-fence scalable, and gave access to the fields behind, were still to be traced. She drifted back into the welcoming arms of sleep, feeling herself surrounded in silk. “Before you do anything else I should advise you to secure those charred fragments of paper from the grate. When were you last confessed, Sir Rowland?" he added abruptly. As she talked, the drift and significance of what she was saying shaped itself slowly to Ann Veronica’s apprehension.
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