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Updated: May 16, 2025
"Better for you, Susanna, if your husband had ever found the oyster!" Garrett Wesley glanced at him from under his badger-gray brows. "We may be coming to the oyster, sir, if you have patience. Crest, a wivern proper: motto, 'God is love. I am thinking, ma'am, a child of yours might find some use for that motto, since children of my own I have none." "There could be none nobler, sir," Mrs.
In person, Mr Pinsent was spare and diminutive, with a bald head, a tuft of badger-gray hair over either ear, and a fresh-coloured, clean-shaven face, extraordinarily wrinkled about the face and at the corners of the eyes, which twinkled at you from under a pair of restless stivvery eyebrows. You had only to look at them and note the twitch of his lips to be warned of the man's facetiousness.
He was badger-gray, to be sure, and stiff in one knee a rheumatic legacy of office inherited by reason of wet nights in the open and a too-diligent devotion to duty but in no other respect did he believe his age to be apparent. His smoke-blue eyes were as bright as ever, his hand was quick; realization that he had been shunted upon a side track filled him with surprise and bewilderment.
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