Perceiving he was about to take leave, Kneebone ventured to ask whom he had had the honour of addressing. He—he has rather a poor opinion of his contemporaries. Her complexion had resisted the snow-glare wonderfully; her skin had only deepened its natural warmth a little under the Alpine sun. Before he re-entered the prison, he hesitated from a doubt whether he was not fearfully increasing his risk of capture; but, convinced that he had no other alternative, he went on. “I have had a trying evening and I need rest. Got detained in the City, and——” Then he met the fixed, breathless gaze of those wonderful eyes from the other side of the table, and he, too, broke off in the middle of his sentence. Somehow her walk home with him had been transmogrified into a melodramatic rejection, a slamming. ‘Then it is that you will have pity? Here we have come, we poor, for aid. “You appear,” she said, without any sign of anger in her tone, and with unruffled composure, “to be a very impertinent person.
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