Read that letter, Thames—my lord marquis, I mean. Whenever McClintock had guests, he loafed with them on the west veranda in the morning. " He shifted the pages together, rolled and thrust them under her arm. Her finger-nails dug into her flesh. Tears started to the young man's eyes on beholding the change, and it was with difficulty he could command himself sufficiently to make the inquiries he desired to do respecting the former owner of the house. He was alert, well-groomed, and yet—perhaps in contrast with the more volatile French type—there was a suggestion of weight about him, not to say heaviness.
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