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In his muscular pudgy hand was a photograph, frayed at the corners, soiled from the contact of many hands: the portrait of a youth of eighteen. ‘At this present, I must appropriate Lady Bicknacre. It is only a matter of time before he presents himself to whoever has the deeds to Remenham House—a lawyer I presume—and claims that property for his wife’s. “I have stood it for a month, Anna,” he exclaimed. He was always drawing contrasts between a woman’s lot and a man’s, and treating her as a wonderful new departure in this comparison. “Why would she do that? Why does she care? That’s a waste of her time. “Now you must go,” she said firmly.
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