"What do you think of your nephew, Sir Rowland?" whispered Jonathan, who sat with his back towards Thames, so that his features were concealed from the youth's view. ‘We’ll cross that bridge if and when we come to it. “Who’ll mind the baby nar?” was one of the night’s inspirations, and very frequent. The air was sweet with the smoky perfume of myrrh, hazy and dense with incense.
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