‘Good, good—and not before time,’ muttered Roding, glancing round again. She longed to own something lasting, anything, but knew her wishes to be stupid. Or, better still, put all my clothes in the trunk. It was easy to discern Gianfrancesco’s mood. And, now, to find a messenger. I had nosebleeds that day and I got halfway up the rope before I fell off. “It was just an hour before teatime,” she remarked.
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