“Is that so? Who says?” He demanded, his eyebrows arching as he looked at her with puerile glee. She could still remember his face, the perpetually wet lips that turned down at the sides, his drooping Roman eyes. " "Hold your tongue, sirrah," rejoined Shotbolt, not over-pleased by the remark, "and mind what I tell you. But it's confounded inconvenient. Ramage!” she cried, and struggled to her feet.
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