In the hall below she could hear his firm voice giving quick commands to the servants. There were sidetables and a writing table, similarly buried in bric-a-brac, and the chair by the French doors could hardly be seen for blankets. “It is a night of endings,” she murmured to herself. In the chapel she sang with an open-lunged gusto that silenced Ann Veronica altogether, and in the exercising-yard slouched round with carelessly dispersed feet. This fall saved him, for the horsemen passed over him. Wood could stand it no longer.
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