Jackson, mean time, produced a pocket-book; and, after deliberately sharpening the point of a pencil, began to write on a blank leaf. With the extra seventy-five pounds she had put after birthing her final son, Steven, her knees weren’t in good shape to be running up and down stairs all day. To her mind, recalling the picture of him the night before, there had been something tragic in the grim silent manner of his tippling. A sinister thought edged in. ’ The listening soldiers began to snigger behind their hands.
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