" Sir Rowland made no reply, but angrily quickened his pace. It had been her home for hundreds of years. “That is my dream of you,” said Manning, warming. He tasted like cinders and ash, but not of smoke. This one was Henry Esmond, that one the melancholy Marius, and so forth and so on; never any villains. And turning again, as if the emotions she had churned up kept her on the move, she paced back to the mantel and there stopped, staring at her own reflection in the tarnished mirror. Hartford had a very respectable sound.
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