The present divinity of the cellar was a comely middle-aged dame, almost as stout, and quite as shrill-voiced, as the Billingsgate fish-wives above-mentioned, Mrs. That is all I ask. That's the only fault I know of. She stole the opportunity to peer at his departing figure from the closed curtains of the front room window, his shoulders slumped forward, his posture and his ego slightly deflated. And if you’ve any notion—’ ‘Yes, it is upstairs,’ Melusine agreed, crossing to the library door.
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