“Dreadful women, my dear!” said Miss Stanley. He put an arm around her. She produced from the depths of her pride the ugly investigatory note of the modern district visitor. Mrs Sindlesham occupied a large padded armchair to one side of a corner fireplace, which gave out a heat more than adequate for September to one of the major’s robust constitution. Below her stretched a valley of rich meadowland, of yellow cornfields, and beyond moorland hillside glorious with purple heather and golden gorse. The Disguise. Ramage,” she said, “I can’t—Not now.
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