The candles—for McClintock never used oil in his dining room—were burning low in the sconces. ‘Up, Jacques, up,’ she ordered. Most of it had been incomprehensible to her, or comprehensible in a way that checked further curiosity, but the figure of Vivien, hard, capable, successful, and bullying, and ordering about a veritable Teddy in the person of Frank Gardner, appealed to her. Sheppard's ward, Sir. I wanted you to know.
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