The gallant woollen-draper was now in his thirty-sixth year. Lord Charvill champed upon an invisible bit for a moment or two, closing the gap between himself and the girl, and muttering the name to himself in an overwrought sort of way. She was suddenly very aware of the room, the television still blaring, and the chill in the air. “There is someone in my rooms,” Anna said. She mewed weakly, “Sebastian? What have you done? Where is Gianfrancesco? Did you kill him?” He crossed his arms.
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