‘Who’s this, then? Not soldiers again. Lucy looked about confusedly. ‘I’m damned if I see what you have to complain of,’ uttered Charvill, a faintly bewildered note underlying his irascibility. “You know I’m old-fashioned, Miss Stanley. He was still flashily dressed, with much obvious jewellery and the shiniest of patent boots, but his general bearing and appearance had altered for the worse. The Wastrel did not relish this. Perhaps some one had kissed the brow that was now so cadaverous, rubbed that sunken cheek with loving fingers, held that stringy neck with passionately living hands. She did not resist him, she could not. She had a few acquaintances, English gentlemen, but she lived with her sister—was a lady. Solomon Smith, chapmen, (or what in modern vulgar parlance would be termed bagmen) travelling to procure orders for the house of an eminent cloth manufacturer in Manchester.
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