‘You cannot mean General Charvill?’ ‘That old martinet?’ exclaimed Roding. I could make away with him at once, as you are about to make away with your nephew, Sir Rowland,—but that wouldn't serve my turn. There were sidetables and a writing table, similarly buried in bric-a-brac, and the chair by the French doors could hardly be seen for blankets. And your great-niece.
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