‘He lacked moral fibre, did Nicholas. With a finger crooked in his side-pocket, she measured her step with his, her senses still dizzy from the echo of the magic sounds. . \"I don't eat lunch. You want industry—you want steadiness. "Woman, your wits are fled!" And so it seemed; for all the answer she could make was to murmur distractedly, "I can't find the key.
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