"I don't suppose I'll have time to change," Robin wondered, in between bites, trying to reorient himself to his routines. That was the worst part of getting lost, losing one's grip on time: going out for an hour's walk and taking two hours that felt like at least three hours threw off the rhythm of time passing.
"Cab's coming," the housekeeper cocked her head to one side, not looking at a clock but rather listening for a motor in the distance, "Brought your satchel down."
"Oh, thanks," Robin grinned, pleased with Mrs. Ricks's attention. Though she had never once failed him in courtesy or comfort, her taciturn ways made him think her mildly hostile and a little stupid, so her least efforts always struck him as a pleasant surprise, "I guess I don't look too wrong for the train."
"Mmm," Mrs. Ricks murmured agreement, examining her employer's bulky turtleneck pullover, tweed shooting jacket, and corduroy trousers tucked into high paddock-boots with an eye for dirt or disorder; finding none, she wondered that Robin could spend hours hacking in the woods without getting dirty while her husband couldn't seem to cross the kitchen-yard without coming back covered in muck.
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