She has already forgotten it. ‘I broke in. A ragged gray moustache drooped from the corners of his mouth and a ragged wisp of whisker hung from his chin. And, mind, it's for his sister, Lady Trafford. She resumed her on guard position, and glaring steadily at him, waited again. His eyes were closed. The salt air was fresher than the stale air in the manor. She set her fingers in the hair and tugged, drawing him to a sitting posture and stooping so that her eyes would be on the level with his when he awoke.
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