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But though Juliette might have been ready to yield to Lady Blakeney's persuasion, Desiree Candeille, under Chauvelin's eye, and fired by her own desire to further humiliate this overbearing aristocrat, did not wish the little scene to end so tamely just yet. "Your old calotin was made to part with his booty, m'dear," she said, with a contemptuous shrug of her bare shoulders.
I know!" he rejoined with that short deprecatory sigh of his, which seemed always to close any discussion between them on that point, "you are thinking of that absurd duel..." He laughed lightly, good-humouredly, and his eyes gleamed with merriment. "La, m'dear!" he said gaily, "will you not reflect a moment? Could I refuse the challenge before His Royal Highness and the ladies?
Only ostlers, pugilists, and such as yourself, George, would stoop to do such a thing! Oh, monstrous! No, no, Julia m'dear, you mistake; to "strip" is a term o' the "fancy" milling, d'ye see fibbing is a very gentlemanly art, assure you; I went three rounds with the "Camberwell Chicken" before I Have done with your chickens, sir B'gad, he nearly did for me naked mauleys, you'll understand. In
"So do I," said Dade grimly. "You can send McHale word." As Casey closed the door and set a chair against it in place of the damaged fastenings, Kitty Wade peeped from her room. "Are the outlaws g-gone?" she asked. "They have went," her husband replied. "You are saved, m'dear. Your little heart may now palpitate in normal palps." His wife, looking altogether charming and girlish, emerged.
"Oh! nothing, m'dear," he muttered with a pleasant laugh, "only a trifle you happened to have forgotten . . . my friend, Ffoulkes . . ." "Sir Andrew!" she gasped. Indeed, she had wholly forgotten the devoted friend and companion, who had trusted and stood by her during all these hours of anxiety and suffering. She remembered him how, tardily and with a pang of remorse.
He suffered intensely at times, but neither groan nor word of complaint was ever allowed to escape his set lips. Only Sara would see, after what he described as "one of my damn bad days, m'dear," new lines added to the deepening network that had so aged his appearance lately.
"More so than your chivalry, I fear," she retorted sarcastically. "Odd's life, m'dear! be reasonable! Do you think I am going to allow my body to be made a pincushion of, by every little frog-eater who don't like the shape of your nose?" "Lud, Sir Percy!" laughed Lady Blakeney as she bobbed him a quaint and pretty curtsey, "you need not be afraid!
I think a little sea voyage and English country air would suit the Abbe Foucquet, m'dear, and I only mean to ask him to cross the Channel with me!..." "Percy!" she pleaded. "Oh! I know!
"You are tired, m'dear," said Sir Percy quietly, "will you not sit down?" He held the chair gallantly for her. She tried to read his face, but could not catch even a flash from beneath the heavy lids which obstinately veiled his eyes.
Percy! . . ." "It's all very well calling me, m'dear!" said the same sleepy, drawly voice, "but odd's life, I cannot come to you: those demmed frog-eaters have trussed me like a goose on a spit, and I am weak as a mouse . . . I cannot get away." And still Marguerite did not understand.
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