Part of his head was swathed in linen bandages. 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. Why don’t you go in? Charvill is there. “It’s still a marvel to me that we are to be forgiven,” she said, turning.
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