He was a Wiltshire Edmondshaw, a very old family. "Excuse me," he said, plunging his fork into a fowl, and transferring it to his plate. "Spare me!" he groaned, looking upwards. ’ Kimble’s widening gaze told its own tale, but still he kept his fingers on the handle of the door. She was sorry to find Ramage a little disposed to be melancholy. He did not move.
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