An audible crack sounded in the kitchen and Mark slumped backwards, unconscious. “Please forgive me coming up, Miss Pellissier, but you have not been down to dinner for three nights, and—Brendon and I—we were afraid that you might be unwell. For a few moments, Thames regarded the little girl through the half-opened door in silence. “She’s my wife,” the man muttered. Kneebone will excuse you. Then I assumed a rather portentous manner to prepare him.
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