It was a habit she had taken from Remenham House, but could not wear because of the colour which must draw attention. Kneebone, who did not appear in the slightest degree disconcerted by his cool reception, each sank carelessly into a chair, and made himself at home in a moment. She recoiled. The act was mechanical, a bit of sparring for time: his anger was searching about for a new vent. You owe what I have done for you, to him, not to me.
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