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But he refused the offer indignantly, and he set himself to make it what it must have been hundreds of years ago." "He hardly succeeded in doing that," observed Blanche Farrow dryly. "Our ancestors lived less comfortably than we do now, Miss Brabazon. Instead of beautiful old Persian carpets, there must have been rushes on all the floors.
Farrow who held her in his arms; she purposely strove to think an imaginary Romeo's head was on her neck his face was something like the face of Montgomery and she kept up the illusion all that night. When she came down to breakfast and sat opposite her husband, it struck her suddenly that she had cheated him and was a sinner.
"Miss Farrow!" he echoed Costin's apologetic utterance of Cynthia's name expressionlessly. "Miss Farrow . . ." The colour rushed from his brow to chin; his heart began to race just as it used to in the old days when he had called to see her, and was waiting in her pink drawing-room, listening to the sound of her coming steps on the landing outside.
I must have a breath of air, or I'll choke!" Doctor and butler hurried into the house; then, but not until then, Hilton Fenley and the keeper became aware of Farrow, now within a few yards. At sight of him, Fenley seemed to recover his faculties; the mere possibility of taking some definite action brought a tinge of color to a pallid and somewhat sallow face. "Ah! Here is the constable," he cried.
He felt sharply irritated with Miss Farrow, whom he had never liked, and also with Lionel Varick. He knew that Bubbles' father had written to her aunt; he had himself advised it, knowing, with that shrewd, rather pathetic instinct which love gives to some natures, that Bubbles thought a great deal of her aunt far more, indeed, than her aunt did of her.
His face fell when he heard that he was condemned to solitude, shut out from all the excitement of the hour, debarred even, as he imagined, from standing on the rock and watching the comings and goings at the mansion. But Winter was a kindly if far-seeing student of human nature. "It will be a bit slow for you," he said, when the Inspector had given Farrow his orders.
And then, to the speaker's extreme surprise, there came a sudden change over Pegler's face. Her pale countenance flushed, it became discomposed, and she turned her head away to hide the springing tears. Miss Farrow was touched; as much touched as her rather hard nature would allow her to be. This woman had been her good and faithful friend, as well as servant, for over twelve years.
"Forgive me! I oughtn't to have told you " "Don't say that. You can tell me anything!" Blanche Farrow, who had now moved forward to the fireplace, would again have been very much surprised had she heard the intense, intimate tone in which Lionel Varick uttered those few words to his late wife's friend.
Miss Farrow looked up from the very comfortable armchair where she was sitting leaning back, with her neatly shod, beautifully shaped feet stretched out to the log fire. Her maid was standing a little to the right, her spare figure and sallow face lit up by the flickering, shooting flames, for the reading-lamp at Miss Farrow's elbow was heavily shaded.
She turned to him eagerly. "Wasn't that Miss Farrow? . . . . Oh, Jimmy, why didn't you tell me?" Jimmy drained his wineglass before answering. "I forgot you were interested; I'm sorry. . . . She isn't alone, you see, or or I would introduce her if you cared for me to, that is." "I don't think Miss Wyatt would care for Miss Farrow," said Arthur Sangster quietly. Jimmy looked furious.
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