She carried herself well, whereas her brother slouched, and there was a certain aristocratic dignity about her that she had acquired through her long engagement to a curate of family, a scion of the Wiltshire Edmondshaws. “Look here,” he said, “I brought you here to make love to you. Our land brings us in nothing. He left that arid rule clear of the least mist of refinement or delicacy. Lucy sighed. What matters it? My servant, he is wounded—and by a Frenchman, if you wish to make an arrest.
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