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CHAPTER THIRTY ONE

Destiny jerked upright in the moonlight. The thud somewhere along the landing would just about waken the dead. Certainly it had woken her. She’d sooner drag the bedclothes over her head and ease back down, than set one foot on the bare boards when the last several days had shown she was as far from being a corpse as whoever had made the noise. Forget how embarrassing it was that Orwell, not content with losing Doom Bar Hall, when he was several sheets to the wind, had only just gone and collapsed on the landing while he was a hundred sheets more and knocked Grandmother Tintagel’s delftware basin and ewer for six. Between him and Divers O’Roarke the house would be as much as she got, if she got it though.