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She took it, but didn't meet his look. "Good night," she said, and drove away without another signal. Senhouse, shouldering his bundle, found the lady's maid, and gave her her sailing orders. His manner to her was exactly that which he had shown to the mistress, easy, simple, and good-humoured.
Another from the reverend James Manning, of Exeter, in which he stated himself to be authorised by the dissenting ministers of Devon and Cornwall, to express their high approbation of the conduct of the commitee, and to offer their services in the promotion of this great work of humanity and religion. Another from William Senhouse, esquire, of the island of Barbadoes.
Passing the Demeter of Cnidos, her swinging hand touched his. He held his breath. Her face, sharply in profile, was as pure and pale as a silver coin. Her breast held her secret. To her own heart she voiced the cry, "Have I done well, dear one? Have I done well? Do you approve of me? Do you?" It may be that Senhouse heard her in his Wiltshire hills.
"They locked her up with an aunt, and she bolted." "Same thing," said Ingram. "Well, this chap Senhouse comes here one day in a mighty hurry turns up at breakfast, and makes a row. Wants me to swear I'll divorce and marry Sancie. Says he thinks I'm a blackguard and all that, but that, on the whole, I'd better marry her. Refuses to give me her address, all the same.
It was dangerous work to think of him, she knew and her old fortitude stood by her, which said, Turn your mind resolutely away from that which may influence your judgment. Senhouse was not a stoic; he was an epicurean, she now considered. She wanted something flintier than Senhouse. He might have tried to dissuade her; but her mind was now made up. She intended to marry Nevile.
It was partly the price of her crown. A few letters from old friends were formally answered. Sanchia had never been a free writer; nobody but Senhouse had found her letters eloquent he only had been able to feel the throb beneath the stiff lines. Her handwriting, round and firm, had for him a provocative quality; it stung his imagination.
In front of them the valley wound softly to the south, and melted into the folds of the hills; to the right, upon a wooded slope, in glades between the trees, goats were at pasture. "Goats! Robinson Crusoe!" Chevenix pointed them out. "Dic mihi, Damoeta, cuium pecus? an Meliboei? Are they yours, Senhouse?" "I drink them, and make cheese. I learned how to do it at Udine ages ago.
The frown which began to settle about his discerning eyes speedily dissolved in wonder as they encountered the strange creature in the lady's company. He stared, he gaped, then slapped his thigh. "Jack Senhouse! That's the man. God of battles, what a start! Now, what on earth is Jack Senhouse doing, playing courier to Mrs. Germain?" That was precisely the employment.
"'Oh's the sort of expression one used at the time," said Chevenix. "There wasn't much else to be said. It was a holy row." He mused, he brooded, and said no more. Luckily for him, he discovered Dover at hand, and escaped. Mrs. Germain was put into a first-class carriage by two attendant squires, provided with tea and a foot-warmer; and then Chevenix bowed himself away and Senhouse disappeared.
It was the colour of death; but a single star shone out in it. Chevenix came in briskly, fastening his sleeve-links. "Here is the Perfect Chaperon, here is he!" he said, and bowed to Lady Maria. "My dear Aunt Wenman, you've no notion how hungry I am. We saw Senhouse teaching the hares their catechism. Afterwards we lunched on conversation and water. Ah, and salad. Excellent salad.
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