’ ‘But Marthe, this is idiot. In the distance a barrel-organ was grinding out a pot pourri of popular airs. To hand the key back in silence was like offering a lie. Wood and Thames taking their places on either side of it, and Jack at a little distance behind. Her two sticks were bare and brown, her snugged canvas drab, her brasses dull, her anchor mottled with rust. Sometimes I think you would have been much better off if you had been born in death-worshipping Egypt instead of in the Fourteenth Century. . . ‘Tie a horse behind the carriage?’ he echoed incredulously.
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