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'A badly told story, said the priest, 'with one good incident in it, and, instead of trying to remember how victory came to the Lynotts, Father Oli ver's eyes strayed over the landscape, taking pleasure in the play of light along sides and crests of the hills.
Lord Merrenden talked about politics and the questions of the day. He has a courteous manner, and all their voices are soft and refined. And nothing could have been more smooth and silent than the service. The luncheon was very simple and very good, but not half the number of rich dishes like at Branches, or Lady Ver's.
Sir Charles seemed bored and uncomfortable; he kissed his three exquisite bits of Dresden china, so like and yet unlike himself they have Lady Ver's complexion, but brown eyes and golden hair like his. "Yes; ask Harbottle for the packages," he said. "I have no time to talk to you.
We were only a party of six. An old Miss Harpenden, who goes everywhere to play bridge, and Malcolm, and one of Lady Ver's young men, and I. Sir Charles is absent, and brings himself back. He fiddles with the knives and forks, and sprawls on the table rather, too. He looks at Lady Ver with admiration in his eyes. It is true, then, in the intervals of Paris, I suppose, she can make his heart beat.
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