And if you mean that he may have reconciled himself with his own father, you waste your breath. 47 was no more than a sort of railway compartment on the way to that. It was a charming sight to watch the motions of her tiny fingers as she pursued her task; and though the posture she adopted was not the most favourable that might have been chosen for the display of her sylphlike figure, there was something in her attitude, and the glow of her countenance, lighted up by the mellow radiance of the setting sun falling upon her through the panes of the little dormer-window, that seemed to the youth inexpressibly beautiful. He has no imagination, no real generosity. Ennison too, always handsome and debonnair, seemed transported out of his calm self. He sat down beside her and stroked her hair. And I passed myself off as Meysey Hill, and since—then—I haven’t had a minute’s peace.
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