She had looked up from her seat at the small round table in the centre of the parlour which, together with the wooden armchairs beside the small fireplace, and a sideboard next the single casement, was all the furniture the place afforded. She turned with an effort. Looking for something, or someone, probably. Diane Vorsack was a disaster waiting for a place to happen, with a heartily established dislike for the Beck clan. We’ll go to the shops. Or did he? Perhaps he had found another. “Yes,” she answered, looking away. "I think you're all bewitched," she cried.
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