“But what are you going to do?” asked Hetty. Brendon’s had an awful stroke of luck. He went over his interview with her again, their conversation at dinner-time. In any case, there was no doing anything on a Sunday and Brewis Charvill, his main quarry, had gone out of town unexpectedly. And I passed myself off as Meysey Hill, and since—then—I haven’t had a minute’s peace. Her target was a fifty-four year old man who lived with his mother, an obese neighborhood woman, a widow named Dawn Plote. Her heartbeat quickened. He contrived to break off his sister's match; and this he accomplished so cleverly, that he maintained the strictest friendship with Sir Cecil. Yet there was nothing for her to do.
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