"Your servant, Sir Rowland," said the stranger, ducking his head, as he advanced. Her father’s ideas of expostulation were a little harsh and forcible, and over the claret-colored table-cloth and under the gas chandelier, with his hat and umbrella between them like the mace in Parliament, he and his daughter contrived to have a violent quarrel. Anna came back into the sitting-room with a little sigh of relief. "To the best of my belief, Thames Darrell has been murdered by you. Pausing with the intention of turning back, he glanced in the direction of the village church, the tower of which could just be seen through the trees. Her body was perpetually tanned, despite the approach of winter.
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