’ *** 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. This young man did not drink because he sought the false happiness that lured men to the bottle. Sheppard, falling on her knees. ’ His face changed, all the humour and tenderness leaving it in an instant. But, urged by his wife's cries, who was more anxious for the preservation of her child's life than her own, he snatched up the infant, and made his escape from the back of the premises. This year—I’ve got it badly.
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