Sir John, by instinct and training, was an unimaginative person. It was her foster brother Mike, on his way to the bathroom. She was not squeamish—although the sight of the sergeant’s ominous preparations had severely tried her fortitude—but Kimble’s white face plagued her conscience. Then light footsteps became audible, descending the staircase with a certain deliberation and a faint rustle of skirts.
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