EPOCH THE FIRST, 1703. Charvill’s fury was burning out. Wild will hang me. No wonder we are anxious that nothing should happen to make him change his mind. He was suddenly calm. Beyond was a chaise longue, covered with cushions and shawls laid anyhow across it, together with a discarded tapestry in the making, and a scattering of woollen threads about it. Ramage.
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