Sheila, a normally sound sleeper, woke one night to find both her husband and her foster daughter had snuck from their beds, and this infuriated her. “Let go!” she gasped at him, a blaze of anger. It fell with a clatter to the floor. ‘You had better kill me, mademoiselle, because otherwise I shall end by strangling you. ” She glared at Sebastian over the drawing table where she was sketching in chalk, then over at the fifteen year old boy who was asleep in a disheveled pile of rushes in the corner. "Well, Sir Rowland," he said, after a brief pause, during which the knight regarded him with a searching glance, as if endeavouring to recall his features, "I will not gainsay your words. "So, stir your stumps, Saint Giles; and, if you mean to lock us up, use despatch.
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