She was not afraid of violence, but she was afraid of something mean, some secondary kind of force. A stout female stood in the aperture, an oil lamp in her hand. He rose at once to his feet and turned a white face upon her. Perhaps the sunken cheeks and the protruding cheekbones gave her this impression. Read it, and you'll find that your unfortunate uncle, Sir Rowland, surrenders to you all the estates in Lancashire.
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