’ *** Everett, General Lord Charvill, master of a barony stretching over a wide estate that encroached on the hundreds of Witham, Thurstable and Dengy, stood before his own fireplace, glaring at his visitors from under bushy white brows from a head held necessarily low above a back painfully bent by rheumatism. She knew the truth of it all right. He touched a long-standing sore, and Ann Veronica found herself vainly trying to explain—the inexplicable. He depended upon her, for his medicine, for his drink, for the little amusement it was now permissible to give him. “Eight, Cavendish Square.
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