"Perhaps you don't know that this Darrell so contrived matters, that your child should be mistaken for his own; by which means it had a narrow escape from a tight cravat, I can assure you. “Are you going on again this winter with that scientific work of yours? It’s an instance of heredity, I suppose. We've ridden post all the way, and I'm horribly tired, or you wouldn't have mastered me so easily. You were with your mother, the two of you huddled like thieves, laughing at the silly women who tried to shield themselves from rain by cowering under empty baskets and shawls. A small handgun bobbed at the end of it, aimed at Sheila. "Yes … but dreadfully tired. And no ill-chances. You won't refuse me, I'm sure; so no more need be said about the matter. ’ ‘Not, I trust, Nicholas Charvill?’ ‘Hardly.
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