Until he felt a sharpness digging into his coat at the point of his heart. He had been gone entirely one day, for yesterday afternoon he had departed from Remenham House, and she had waited with patience like a saint, and now it was again the afternoon. Somebody ought to talk to him, warn him. The eyes, too, though large and bright, and shaded by long lashes, seemed to betoken, as hazel eyes generally do in men, a faithless and uncertain disposition. It was there in the breast pocket, stiff and legal looking. The thought of their faces, and particularly of her aunt’s, as it would meet the fact— disconcerted, unfriendly, condemning, pained—occurred to her again and again. Would it be Thérèse?’ She shook her head. “Very,” and cracked a walnut appreciatively.
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