Though nearly dark, there was still light enough left to enable him to discern surrounding objects. Ann Veronica, after a last survey of the dinner appointments, followed him, rustling, came to his side by the high brass fender, and touched two or three ornaments on the mantel above the cheerful fireplace. “I will not have this slavery,” she said. ‘You were supposed to be nursing him,’ Martha grumbled, ‘and helping him convalesce. His tone was rough, almost threatening. Meysey Hill—never your wife.
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