Wood in a sharp tone. “You are the Sir John Ferringhall who has bought the Lyndmore estate, are you not?” she remarked. In the adjacent apartment Ann Veronica found a middle-aged woman with a tired face under the tired hat she wore, sitting at a desk opening letters while a dusky, untidy girl of eight-or nine-and-twenty hammered industriously at a typewriter. Annabel saw it, and suddenly changed her tone.
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