“You are coming my way,” Courtlaw answered. The house was full of aunts, uncles, and cousins meandering about, stuffed until their seams and zippers were bursting. The asylum was approached by a broad gravel walk, leading through a garden edged on either side by a stone balustrade, and shaded by tufted trees. A disagreeable young man, with red hair and a loose mouth, seated at the reporter’s table, was only too manifestly sketching her. "I think I may trust him with you, Sir," added she, taking up the candle.
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