Manning, Lady Palsworthy’s nephew, a tall young man of seven-and-thirty with a handsome, thoughtful, impassive face, a full black mustache, and a certain heavy luxuriousness of gesture. Then the incredible happened. “Isn’t that rather a strange question—under the circumstances?” he asked quietly. His legs were dreadfully swelled; his hands bruised; and his fetters occasioned him intolerable pain. She closed the book that she had been pretending to read and gathered her black umbrella and her backpack, a childish accoutrement she despised.
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