“She doesn’t know. He was an imaginative young man. He—he has rather a poor opinion of his contemporaries. She foraged about in her mind for some satisfying equivalent which would express in English this gurgling drone the Chinese called a language. ” “Perhaps,” she said, “I am superstitious. In the old days he had been something of an athlete—a runner, an oarsman, and a crack at tennis. When first you left your home you had no idea that I was the hidden impulse. Annabel passed on with a strained nod to her sister, and Sir John’s bow was a miracle of icy displeasure. It's fortunate we've no more Jack Sheppards, or I should stand but a poor chance. I felt—I felt living in a masked world.
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