’ *** 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. You are in the hands of a wicked, a terrible man, who will not stop till he has completed your destruction. “What is the exact force of a motif?” she asked at random.
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