Aliva's husband, who passed by the name of Darrell, confronted them sword in hand. Her fanciful imagination no longer drew pictures of the aunt in the doorway of a wooden house, her arms extended in welcome. ‘Looks like it. “Most of it is ugly and frowsy,” she declared, “but it isn’t worth talking about. She answered him almost coldly. “Dear me! I wonder where Sir John picked her up. Walpole's order to that effect—but not before. She despises me, I suppose.
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