Then they would leave and she would go back to being alone. “Thank you,” she said coolly. He found the door ajar, and, to his surprise, perceived little Winifred seated at a table, busily engaged in tracing some design upon a sheet of paper. As she did so, the ruffles to the jacket of her riding habit fell away, exposing livid blue bruises about her wrist, ugly in the light of day from the window at their back. After all, what can it matter? It was just to make sure. But then the features changed.
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