’ ‘Fiddle,’ scoffed Miss Froxfield. 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. The windows were small, and strongly grated, looking, in front, on Kendrick Yard, and, at the back, upon the spacious burial-ground of Saint Giles's Church. And later they paddled in a boat above the mysterious deeps of the See, and peered down into the green-blues and the blue-greens together. Ennison kicked it away with his foot.
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