The evening was warm and inviting, one meant to be spent outdoors. A ragged gray moustache drooped from the corners of his mouth and a ragged wisp of whisker hung from his chin. She had never thought of him at all in that way before. He must have been following her from room to room, silent in his stockinged feet. ‘But he must have—’ ‘Nicholas Charvill never did anything he must do,’ Mrs Sindlesham said evenly. There is some deep treachery hidden beneath his words. Then she dropped the curtain and stepped back into the room.
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