He looked like the shadow of himself—thin, feeble, hollow-eyed—his beard unshorn—nothing could be more miserable. ’ ‘So did your business about marrying an Englishman seem to me,’ Gerald returned. Well, come back in half an hour. You don’t know about Mary because you live in Kent. He was wrapped in a laced roquelaure, which he threw off on his entrance into the room. ‘What we have to find out is whether or not the wretched female is in fact Lord Charvill’s granddaughter.
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