And as he gave back the portfolio to Sir Rowland he contrived, unobserved, to slip the precious document into his sleeve, and from thence into his pocket. “He means nothing!” She whispered loudly. You can pull it over on everybody else, Lucy, but not on me. She saw herself begin a slow, sinuous dance: and stop suddenly in the middle of a figure, conscious that the dance was not impromptu, her own, but native—the same dance she had quitted but a few minutes gone. I was perfectly satisfied with your appearance. I have suffered—I have sinned—I have repented.
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