Manning’s handwriting had an air of being clear without being easily legible; it was large and rather roundish, with a lack of definition about the letters and a disposition to treat the large ones as liberal-minded people nowadays treat opinions, as all amounting to the same thing really—a yearssmoothed boyish rather than an adult hand. It was her past now, not Annabel’s. Her voice was weak and flat. She dropped on her knees by his side, and gently unbuttoned his waistcoat. Footman or some such. This had well nigh been the case with the carpenter.
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