We go down a short, narrow hallway to a room with a large partner’s desk. A stooped, gray-haired man stands by the window.
“Miss Pigot, sir,” the clerk says to the gray-haired man.
“Yes, yes.” The man waves the clerk away. “Bring tea.”
I’m not sure where I should sit. The man looks at me. His eyes are a pale blue and look large behind his spectacles.
“Miss Pigot?” he says.
“Yes, I am Miss Pigot.”
“Please sit.” Mr. Carruthers gestures at a hard-backed chair in front of the desk. “What can I do for you?”
“I need advice.
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