" "You cannot help yourself, Sir Rowland," replied Jonathan, contemptuously. ’ *** Everett, General Lord Charvill, master of a barony stretching over a wide estate that encroached on the hundreds of Witham, Thurstable and Dengy, stood before his own fireplace, glaring at his visitors from under bushy white brows from a head held necessarily low above a back painfully bent by rheumatism. Five minutes ago, his butler had entered the green saloon, an austere apartment, with dark forest-green wallpaper flocked with a swirling design, and heavy mahogany furniture. He hadn't followed this angle of thought in ten years: what he might have been, with a little shrewd selfishness. Not like my father. I’ll do it. Perhaps it was the recollection of those happy days.
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