On the north stood the battlements of one of the towers of the gate. Manning, Lady Palsworthy’s nephew, a tall young man of seven-and-thirty with a handsome, thoughtful, impassive face, a full black mustache, and a certain heavy luxuriousness of gesture. ‘I’ll get the key,’ said Roding, turning abruptly. Instead of which they walked sharply. It was only when Study Hall was over that Lucy turned her head. The white veil had fallen to the ground and Gerald retrieved it for her. “I ought to have done. He was all alone, like herself. Who invented them? Nobody knows. The windows were still darkened—perhaps she was not home yet.
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