Never be downhearted. Clarice rubbed her belly, singing songs to the unborn baby. ‘A spitfire, ain’t she, sir?’ Roding ignored this. He was conscious of a peculiar pleasure in sitting there and thinking of those few hours which already were becoming to assume a definite importance in his mind—a place curiously apart from those dry-as-dust images which had become the gods of his prosaic life. " So saying, she planted herself between Jack and the turnkey.
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