Chapter XXII AN OLD FOOL Lady Ferringhall made room for him on the sofa by her side. She could smell the savory tinge of his sweat in the air. ’ ‘Yes, a pretty theory, Lucy,’ Gerald said evenly, ‘but for one thing. It was as if her finite human brain could only store a limit of information, details like hair color and fingernail shape easily jettisoned to make room for the nuances of a grin or the emotion of a shoulder blade. The latter no sooner beheld him than he dashed hastily into an adjoining room.
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