Shari draped herself lazily upon her unmade bed. “My word holds,” she said. Bribble’s rendering of the service —he had the sort of voice that brings out things—and was still teeming with ideas about it when finally a wild outburst from the organ made it clear that, whatever snivelling there might be down in the chancel, that excellent wind instrument was, in its Mendelssohnian way, as glad as ever it could be. ‘Come, come, ma’am,’ he said smiling. He could talk to her as frankly as he could to a man, that she would not take offence at anything so long as it was in the form of explanation.
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