"He's not my son," rejoined the carpenter. Sheppard. Why was she noting things like this? Capes seemed selfpossessed and elaborately genial and commonplace, but she knew him to be nervous by a little occasional clumsiness, by the faintest shadow of vulgarity in the urgency of his hospitality. Even when you've a knave to deal with, let your actions be plain, and above-board. He sat down beside her and stroked her hair. “You will have some tea?” she asked.
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