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‘She won’t like it,’ prophesied the captain gloomily. It was an unspoken curfew in the Beck house on week nights. ‘Well, what was I to think, miss? Martha never wrote nothing about you, and I did ask. Standing before a mirror set on a dresser between the windows, two hands frozen in the act of adjusting a wide-brimmed hat on her head, stood a lady in a dark riding habit, her startled features turned towards the door. No doubt there’s some little mistake. He resented being regarded as irregular.
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