’ *** 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. Most of the horses were dead, all but three stallions and two mares left among what was once a thriving stable. It was comforting to have her there, snoring gently. He was a young man of about two-and-twenty, who, without having anything remarkable either in dress or appearance, was yet a noticeable person, if only for the indescribable expression of cunning pervading his countenance. “Lucy, that’s horrible. On the morrow Spurlock (who was unaware that he had offered a prayer) let down the bars to his reserve. Sheppard now directed her steps.
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