” He slipped off the horse. He was a square-faced man of nearly fifty, with iron-gray hair a mobile, cleanshaven mouth and rather protuberant black eyes that now scrutinized Ann Veronica. ‘But do you think I can blame you for this, Marthe?’ ‘I blame myself. Three a week is my allowance, and, if I get short ones, four. He neither attempted to prevent his nephew's departure, nor to follow him. He moved to one side, bowing and gesturing to the door. Immediately he grasped the fact that there was drama here, probably the old drama of the fugitive.
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