“We’re going to be found out someday. He was more like a man who had left his bed in the middle of convalescence. He was a square-faced man of nearly fifty, with iron-gray hair a mobile, cleanshaven mouth and rather protuberant black eyes that now scrutinized Ann Veronica. If the Wastrel had not turned the instant he did, the ball would have missed him; as it was he turned directly into its path. The arrangement had been made by the town matchmaker, a frightening old oak of a man. He had dungarees on and a blue work shirt. Mr. Were Captain Darrell to offer you his hand, would you accept it?" "Your impertinence deserves very different treatment, Sir," said Winifred; "but, to put an end to this annoyance, I will tell you—I would not. We made sure it was just like Gwen. Then you have altered not only that, but your manner of dressing it. To be alone with her, in idleness, was an intolerable thought. Pity you aren’t under my command. It was the crowned queen of mountains in her robes of shining white. Every now and then she fingered an ornament, moved a piece of furniture, or rearranged some draperies.
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