He was a square-faced man of nearly fifty, with iron-gray hair a mobile, cleanshaven mouth and rather protuberant black eyes that now scrutinized Ann Veronica. Wood, with a candle in his hand, which Jack instantly blew out, and darted down stairs. "Well, Lady Trafford," he said, fixing a severe look upon her. Her pat answer to all inquiries was, “I let my sister Shari make me over,” while she kept from staring at her own reflection in the shiny shoes past her bare knees.
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