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A darker flush stained Grandcourt's face; and Dysart's misinterpretation of his philosophy almost stung him into fierce retort; but as his heavy lips unclosed in anger, his eyes fell on Dysart's ravaged face, and he sat silent, his personal feelings merged in an evergrowing anxiety.
But, as he started to move on, she suddenly knew him; and at the same moment Kathleen's admonition rang in her ears. Her own voice drowned it. "Oh, Duane!" she exclaimed, stretching out her hand across Dysart's line of advance. "You are Geraldine Seagrave, are you not?" he asked smilingly, retaining her hand in such a manner as practically to compel her to step past Dysart toward him.
Nervous spasms which passed as smiles distorted the younger Dysart's visage; the aged beau offered his hand to Duane, who took it in silence, his eyes fixed on the shrivelled, painted face: "Your grandfather was a very fine man," he piped; "very fine! ve-ery fine!
"Rosalie Dysart's," he said, gazing absently at the lilac-bush in flower as the wind-blown curtain revealed it for a moment. She lifted her dark eyes curiously. He began to stir the ice in his glass with a silver paper-cutter. "She is wonderfully beautiful, isn't she?" said the girl. "Overwhelmingly." Geraldine shrugged and gazed into space.
There was a trace of irritation in Dysart's voice; he passed one hand over his forehead; it was icy, and the hair on it damp. "What the devil do you want of me, anyway?" he asked. "Nothing.... I have never wanted anything of you, have I?"
Dysart to telephone her on Mrs. Dysart's return from the country, sir it being a matter of very great importance." "Thank you." "Thank you, sir." The servant withdrew; the son stood gazing into the hallway. Behind him his father mumbled and muttered and chuckled to himself in his easy-chair by the fire! "Te-he! They are all alike, the Dysarts oh, yes, all alike!
The door of the store was closed against the cold; the blacksmith's shop was far down the road; the two or three scattered dwellings showed no sign of life but the wreaths of blue smoke curling up from the clay-and-stick chimneys. Perhaps it was the impunity of the moment that suggested the idea to Dysart's whimsical drunken fancy. He never knew. He suddenly tried the mouth of the pouch.
But Dysart's expression had changed; there was something vaguely caressing in voice and manner as he murmured: "Do you know there is something almost divine in your face." "What did you say?" asked Geraldine, looking up from her ice in its nest of spun sugar. "You so strenuously reject the truthful compliments I pay you, that perhaps I'd better not repeat this one."
What care I! To ninety-nine women life ends with their looks, but I will be the hundredth, and laugh till I die! Why, Kitty, your appetite for news grows by what it feeds on. Sure you are the horseleech's true daughter, crying, "Give, give!" You say I told you not of Charlotte Walpole's marriage. Sure, I did. Maria married her sister well to young Lord Huntingtower, my Lord Dysart's son.
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