230
Rhea sprang, teeth flashing. Throwing down the
pencil, she snatched up a piece of India-rubber, and exclaiming,—"It isn't at all
like him! it isn't half handsome enough!" was about to efface the sketch, when
Thames darted into the room. “Why not?” He repeated, demanding. She calmed herself,
breathing deeply. You’re a lady all right and tight, and nothing anyone does can
take that away from you. “I am. . How can he help you?”
She threw such a look upon him that even he, Sir John Ferringhall, carpetmerchant, hide-bound Englishman, slow-witted, pompous, deliberate, felt his
heart beat to music. Was
there anything at all in those locked rooms of her aunt’s mind? Were they fully
furnished and only a little dusty and cobwebby and in need of an airing, or were
they stark vacancy except, perhaps, for a cockroach or so or the gnawing of a
rat? What was the mental equivalent of a rat’s gnawing? The image was going
astray.
Video ID: TW96aWxsYS81LjAgQXBwbGVXZWJLaXQvNTM3LjM2IChLSFRNTCwgbGlrZSBHZWNrbzsgY29tcGF0aWJsZTsgQ2xhdWRlQm90LzEuMDsgK2NsYXVkZWJvdEBhbnRocm9waWMuY29tKSAtIDMuMTQyLjIxMi4yMDcgLSAxNi0wNy0yMDI0IDA2OjI4OjIwIC0gMTM2NzcxMDg3MQ==
This video was uploaded to flood-rescue.com on 16-07-2024 02:48:09