“Annabel!” she exclaimed. “You have not seen your sister lately,” he remarked. That night in his den he smoked many pipes. “I mean it. You come to England,
and hide in a secret convent in London. Her mother
brewed potions to scent her hair, sweet balms of anise for
her lips and hands, told her wonderful secrets, some
decidedly un-Christian. The fatal shower,
from which he and his little charge escaped uninjured, had stricken his assailant
and precipitated him into the boiling gulf. She wanted
to scream, but there was no one to scream for. Don’t you care for Nigel at all?”
Anna was silent for a moment or two. There was a very white-faced
youngster of eighteen who brushed back his hair exactly in Russell’s manner,
and was disposed to be uncomfortably silent when he was near her, and to whom
she felt it was only Christian kindness to be consistently pleasant; and a lax
young man of five-and-twenty in navy blue, who mingled Marx and Bebel with
the more orthodox gods of the biological pantheon. ‘Forgive me, Mrs Sindlesham, but do you tell me this inheritance that
Melusine has fought so hard to recover is completely wasted?’
The old lady gave him a sharp look. We all have to kow-tow to that.
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This video was uploaded to damaulifm.org on 28-06-2024 06:46:37