“I will send you a copy,” Mr. Wood. “John. Jesus! They just wouldn’t let up about you after you played the violin for them. I even offered him back the half interest he had sold to me. . ‘I suppose he isn’t this Leonardo you spoke of?’ ‘Certainly he is not Leonardo. Wood's dwelling,—a plain, substantial, commodious farm-house. But I give you this warning, and let it sink in. ” They were eating quails when they returned to the topic of love. His glance swept up again and found her staring at him with much of her usual defiance, if a touch less of her customary assurance. Muttering something to himself, he appeared to be telling upon his fingers the advantages and disadvantages of some scheme he had in contemplation. It was his tall stance and his pale skin that drew him out of the crowd. ’ Lucy was silent for a space, once again wearing that inscrutable expression.
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