Her father was holding her waist, smiling. Trodger was lying in wait at the bottom of the narrow stairs. It was her foster brother Mike, on his way to the bathroom. “Violence won’t do it,” said Ann Veronica. Jonathan had to feel his way. The wheel and the navigating instruments were sternward, under a spread of heavy canvas, a protection against rain and sun. “My father’s sisters used once to live in the old manor house.
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