She entered the last room, his bedroom. He was a square-faced man of nearly fifty, with iron-gray hair a mobile, cleanshaven mouth and rather protuberant black eyes that now scrutinized Ann Veronica. They are not your children, they never were. She turned to Lucilla, a plea in her face. "Bolt the wicket!" shouted Ireton, who, with the others, had been not a little entertained by the gallant turnkey's discomfiture. “I had a visit from Sir John in my rooms,” she said. “Well——” She stopped short.
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