That would be myself, or if she lived, Mary’s daughter. Jack was a comical scoundrel, and made a little too free with his grace's best burgundy, as well as his grace's favourite housekeeper. In one angle of the room stood a disused fire-place, with a rusty grate and broken chimney-piece; in the other there was a sort of box, contrived between the wall and the boards, that looked like an apology for a cupboard. “But why is it preposterous?” asked Ann Veronica, and fiddled with a pipe on the mantel.
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