He ushered Luke into an extremely depressing room. It had small leaded windows that needed cleaning, dull and very dark wood panelling, a rug on the floor that had had the pattern walked out of it, as his Aunt Mary might say, a couple of etchings of Stone Manor with some suspiciously egg-headed figures in the foreground, and an extremely faded armchair which was sprouting horsehair and had been sat on to the point that the seat had an arse-shaped dint. A clock ticked like doom. “Apparently my grandfather sat here every day for eighty years,” Lord Oxney said, adding sourly, “You can hardly
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