Fine woman, Lady Trafford—a little on the wane though. She could not be more than twenty; and though want and other suffering had done the work of time, had wasted her frame, and robbed her cheek of its bloom and roundness, they had not extinguished the lustre of her eyes, nor thinned her raven hair. He dissected rather awkwardly and hurriedly, but, on the whole, effectively, and drew with an impatient directness that made up in significance what it lacked in precision. Did he track her? She was unaware if he did. In the old days he had been something of an athlete—a runner, an oarsman, and a crack at tennis. “It’s precious unromantic. He upset some one —probably Mr.
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