As for Mike’s observations on John’s desires to get laid, it was the pot calling the kettle black. ‘We mean you no harm,’ he said reassuringly. Proof that the scoundrel had risen from the dead—for he was dead to his father! He glared at the female whose appearance in England had revived those painful memories—churning unbearably since Brewis Charvill had brought him the news and put him in the worst of tempers—and the fury spilled out. "You heard me say it! It was inevitable. The warm September sun fell strongly on this part of the grounds, uninterrupted by trees, its light bouncing off the glass in the mansion’s walls. The gallant woollen-draper was now in his thirty-sixth year.
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