She became aware of his presence as she had never been aware of any human being in her life before. Spurlock had sensed what had gone completely over McClintock's head—that this was the playing of a soul in damnation. The image in the glass was not clear, for the light was not bright enough to see properly, but the shadows of her riding habit and the hat with its waving plumes framed a countenance that gazed serenely back at her out of long-lashed blue eyes. This one was Henry Esmond, that one the melancholy Marius, and so forth and so on; never any villains.
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