She looked directly at his face, his perpetually graying hair, his hawkish nose, his long cheekbones. The lunches were individual affairs: sandwiches, bottled olives and jam commandeered from the Victoria. He had meant to be master of his fate that evening and it had escaped him altogether. ‘That there governess didn’t like it, of course, me being the lodgekeeper’s girl, and Martha just a country wench like me.
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