Miss Stanley, it was manifest, had given him Ann Veronica’s address. A snarl contorted his features, and he marched up to it, laying his pistol down on the marquetry table so that his hands were free to grab the picture off the wall. He won’t have menservants inside the house, and his collection of carriages is only fit for a museum—where most of his friends ought to be, by-the-bye. He had certain orders from which on no account was he to deviate.
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