There was a bare chance that he had been mistaken. He was a square-faced man of nearly fifty, with iron-gray hair a mobile, cleanshaven mouth and rather protuberant black eyes that now scrutinized Ann Veronica. The morning of Monday the 16th of November 1724 at length dawned. ‘I may have been only a secretary, but times are changing. “One is always playing the surgeon, one kills always the thing one loves best.
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