’ *** Everett, General Lord Charvill, master of a barony stretching over a wide estate that encroached on the hundreds of Witham, Thurstable and Dengy, stood before his own fireplace, glaring at his visitors from under bushy white brows from a head held necessarily low above a back painfully bent by rheumatism. I hate what I have to do to survive. The doorbell tinkled and Michelle grabbed her purse and rushed down the creaky wooden stairs. ‘But who was he, Gerald?’ ‘A damned condottiere,’ exploded Gerald, forgetting his company. She had imagined that prisons were white-tiled places, reeking of lime-wash and immaculately sanitary. So many distresses— so many joys coming at the same time are too much for me.
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