He was more like a man who had left his bed in the middle of convalescence. . ‘Well?’ demanded Miss Froxfield, accepting a glass of lemonade proffered by a passing lackey. To-night she had a curious feeling that she stood upon the threshold of some change. The uncanny directness of those gray eyes, the absence of diffidence, the beauty of the face in profile (full, it seemed a little too broad to make for perfect beauty), the mellow voice that came full and free, without hesitance, all combined to mark her as the most unusual young woman he had ever met. His face was a little flushed perhaps, and his small, brown eyes were bright. Sir Rowland," he added, in a deep whisper, "do you agree to my terms?" "I do," answered Trenchard, in the same tone. "Fear nothing, Sir," said the man, in a voice which Thames instantly recognised as that of Blueskin. ‘This from a man who calls himself my friend. ” She nodded.
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