" "Sir Rowland is my brother," resumed Lady Trafford coldly. ” “I suppose,” said Constance, stencilling away at bright pink petals, “it’s our lot. These amazing infants! Suddenly he came upon the true solution: that the boy hadn't meant to steal whatever it was he had stolen. ” She shrugged her shoulders. The grate was full of fluttering ashes of burnt paper, and the easy chair near the fire had evidently been used. No one is safe.
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