’ ‘A pox on the creature,’ swore Mrs Sindlesham, clenching and unclenching her stiff fingers. " Sir Rowland caught at a chair for support, and passed his hand across his brow, on which the damp had gathered thickly. She went up-stairs and hesitated between four doors with ground-glass panes, each of which professed “The Women’s Bond of Freedom” in neat black letters. Annabel passed on with a strained nod to her sister, and Sir John’s bow was a miracle of icy displeasure. That dress is thirty years old, if a day.
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