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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. ‘He lacked moral fibre, did Nicholas. Pitt, the governor, a tall pompous personage, who, in his turn, ushered in four other individuals. “Come,” he said, “this is capital, capital. “But was it wise to sing to-night?” “Why not? The man was nothing to me.
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