Capes had the gift of easy, unaffected writing, coupled with very clear and logical thinking, and to follow his written thought gave her the sensation of cutting things with a perfectly new, perfectly sharp knife. She was tired, hungry—and thus somewhat impatient for the food Mrs Ibstock might bring—and downcast. It’s a thing I’ve unaccountably overlooked. Yet her hands dropped, and she sighed deeply. They are often to be found dashing about secret passages in strange houses, armed to the teeth. "We work together no more. His curiosity, his literary instincts, had been submerged by the recurring thought of the fool he had made of himself.
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