I read 270 pages.
Did you ever sit in a warm bath, on a reasonably warm June evening? Maybe you draw the bath, thinking--well, it'd be nice to relax. Lay around, sink in, let your mind casually wander. But the water can't be too hot, right, so you turn it toward a cooler temp. Then you climb in, and it's not unpleasant. But tepid. The air is not cool, but the breeze catches at the surface of the bath, and you're unable to settle in. You keep feeling your skin. The opposite of relaxing.
This book made me feel my skin. It wasn't bad. Perhaps in other weather, some other environmental context, I might soak in its fastidious attention to detail, its loving recreation of an Edwardian voice, might appreciate the lazy pacing of its precision-detailed plot. But.