He flung himself backwards, hit the dais and fell heavily before the altar,
losing his low-crowned beaver. ’
He moved to his friend and grasped his hand in a gesture as deliberately
dramatic as the storytelling of mademoiselle. ”
“A little pit!” said Ann Veronica; “a little prison!”
“It’s just as often a little refuge. That is why I came to London. Drive away the cat; throw
that measure of gin through the window; and tell me why you've not so much as
touched the packing-case for Lady Trafford, which I particularly desired you to
complete against my return. He uttered one word over and over, monotonously:
"Fool! … Fool!"
But invariably the touch of Ruth's hand quieted him, and his head would cease to
roll from side to side. ”
“There’s art,” said Ann Veronica, “and writing. He had a handsome,
jolly-looking face; stood six feet two in his stockings; and measured more than a
cloth-yard shaft across the shoulders—athletic proportions derived from his
father the dragoon. I’m a man, and
I know what I mean. Unless we can get some optimism into him, he'll probably start this all
over again when he gets on his feet. But tell me how have
you escaped from the confinement in which you were placed—come and sit by
me—here—upon the bed—give me your hand—and tell me all about it. No mercenary consideration influences me. What were you doing at Remenham House? I can’t
puzzle that bit out.
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This video was uploaded to damaulifm.org on 24-06-2024 18:50:38