’ *** 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. “Won’t you give me your address?” She shook her head. But she wished she could put the thing she had done in some way to them so that it would not hurt them so much as the truth would certainly do. ‘I’ve had enough of this. "I can't hold it much longer—it'll break my wrist.
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