‘That’s right, you bone idle do-nothings. ’ ‘Pray don’t,’ begged Mrs Sindlesham, one eye on the general’s embattled features. ‘One of your countrymen, perhaps?’ The girl clammed up, the moon of her white face staring up at him in the darkness. She passed inside and upstairs without a word. She could smell his cologne underneath his collar, or perhaps his aftershave. Perhaps she might never come back to that breakfast-room again. Entering the Red Room, he crept through the hole in the wall, descended the chimney, and arrived once more in his old place of captivity. Lady Trafford, supposed to be childless, broken in health and spirits, frail both in mind and body, is not likely to make another marriage.
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