It was Blueskin. She felt her chest trying to float up, but the blessed undertow, the dreaded reason why she was warned to never bathe in the ocean, sucked her feet down, putting the decision where it belonged, into the hands of God. ‘Well?’ demanded Miss Froxfield, accepting a glass of lemonade proffered by a passing lackey. Now, no more questions, or I shall be forced to leave the room. I suppose that’s the gist of the whole thing. “Bother it all!” she swore.
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