She fought a compulsive urge to yank his shirt free. ’ *** 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. There followed a silence which endured several minutes; or, rather a tableau. There was no past, no future, only this exhilarating present. On all hands Jack was cheered, and Jonathan hooted. “We are both of us trenching upon forbidden ground,” she said. F.
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