‘I must get a handkerchief. Sir John gave his order, deliberately stumbling now and then over a word, and anglicizing others. ‘Poor Hilary. And when she took and married that Mr Charvill, we didn’t think to see her at Remenham House no more. ‘Here you, Pottiswick. Do you like duck?” “Sure. The new and the old cancelled out; his daughters became quasi-independent dependents—which is absurd. Only she hadn’t. Then she glanced at the cards again, over which her aunt’s many-ringed hand played, and then at the rather weak, rather plump face that surveyed its operations. The dusky obscurity of the room was twice welcome.
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