The whole neighbourhood was disturbed. He seemed to deliberate. "He's not my son," rejoined the carpenter. Pramlay received them in the pretty chintz drawing-room, which opened by French windows on the trim garden, with its croquet lawn, its tennis-net in the middle distance, and its remote rose alley lined with smart dahlias and flaming sunflowers. “But, dear, think! He is your father. Mr. "It's a mysterious transaction altogether. He is an awfully good sort— and now he has come to me to help him if I can.
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