“Yes, I will go,” she promised, with a queer little smile. “It’s about forty pounds. "No Mohocks! No Scourers!" cried the mob. Her eyes were dilated— fixed in a horrified stare at the parting in the curtains which hung before the window. And then suddenly—a relief. Manning, Lady Palsworthy’s nephew, a tall young man of seven-and-thirty with a handsome, thoughtful, impassive face, a full black mustache, and a certain heavy luxuriousness of gesture. She could feel Michelle’s nervousness leaching into her spine.
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