“—and your aunt—” For a time he searched for the mot juste. The girl regarded him with the face of a Sphinx. A new inexplicable madness that urged him to shrill ironically the story of his coat—to take it off and fling it at the feet of any stranger who chanced to be nigh. A physiognomist, indeed, would have likened him to that crafty animal, and it must be owned the general formation of his features favoured such a comparison. 277 “I was beginning to think that I would never see you again, Lucy.
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