It was you, of course, whom he wanted. He's worth a dozen of you. “I am afraid,” he said gravely, “that your sister has been a little indiscreet. Had he but known it, his outburst had done him no harm in the major’s eyes. The conceit of Howard Spurlock in imagining he knew what mental suffering was! But Enschede was right: Ruth must never know. In Darrell's open features, frankness and honour were written in legible characters; while, in Jack's physiognomy, cunning and knavery were as strongly imprinted. Balanced on his nose were enormous tortoise-shell spectacles. He then spoke with a certain fatherly kindliness of the past. His face was wreathed in smiles, his beringed hand was cordially outstretched.
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