She paused for a moment. ’ She bit her lip and thought deeply. Her aunt was blandly amiable above a certain tremulous undertow, and talked as if to a caller about the alarming spread of marigolds that summer at the end of the garden, a sort of Yellow Peril to all the smaller hardy annuals, while her father brought some papers to table and presented himself as preoccupied with them. " The woollen-draper replied by gallantly handing her the box, which was instantly snatched from her by Blueskin, who, after helping himself to as much of its contents as he could conveniently squeeze between his thumb and finger, put it very coolly in his pocket. He hung over her—he and his loan to her and his connection with her and that terrible evening—a vague, disconcerting possibility of annoyance and exposure. “You are a thousand times more beautiful,” he said, “than anything else could be. Mrs Sindlesham raised her brows. His voice when he spoke was almost fiercely assertive, but there was an undernote of nervousness. "No; I don't think I'd laugh. “Look here,” he said, protruding his eyes; “why get anything to do at all just yet? Why, if you must be free, why not do the sensible thing? Make yourself worth a decent freedom. She was almost tempted to tell him, if only to see the cracks of surprise and incredulity break the immobility of his yellow countenance. "Do they treat you ill?" asked her son.
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