Annabel passed on with a strained nod to her sister, and Sir John’s bow was a miracle of icy displeasure. Any natural fineness would be numbed by drink. In the hall below she could hear his firm voice giving quick commands to the servants. They would be quite as entertaining as the histories of Guzman D'Alfarache, Lazarillo de Tormes, Estevanillo Gonzalez, Meriton Latroon, or any of my favourite rogues,—and far more instructive. Presently he felt motion. It slid off flimsily. ‘And I trust you will pardon my inadequacies.
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