In the centre of the upper gallery was a spacious saloon, appropriated to the governors of the asylum. Michelle sat on her bed, which emanated scents of powdered laundry detergent and Sweet Honesty perfume. "This suspense is worse than torture. I'm heading for bed. ‘Go and fetch her home,’ he said; ‘it isn’t what we thought! It’s just a practical joke of hers. ” “You’re leaving, aren’t you?” He accused.
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