Books were always sliding and slipping, clumsy objects to hold. The small Diedermayer clan was a captive audience. At sight of his wan features, she forgot the urgency of her need for a moment, and fell to her knees at his bedside, placing her hands on his slack ones where they lay on the soiled coverlet. He laughed. It was dry, as if she had powdered it. ‘Aye, sir. “It was fine and brave of you.
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