“Yes. ’ *** 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. ‘Parbleu, do you think he will run away? He has a bullet inside him, and it must be taken out. The sun was all but gone now, the horizon a deep shade of purple.
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