Manning’s handwriting had an air of being clear without being easily legible; it was large and rather roundish, with a lack of definition about the letters and a disposition to treat the large ones as liberal-minded people nowadays treat opinions, as all amounting to the same thing really—a yearssmoothed boyish rather than an adult hand. ‘Sit down, won’t you?’ He crossed back to Roding and said low-voiced. It was equally as beautiful but not quite so fine as the daughter's. He could not make good his hold. The angels in Heaven shall not tear you from me.
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