She remembered him as a dull figure, a big man with a belly that was already showing fat under his fine scarlet clothes. ‘You make a game with me, I think. “I fail to see the joke,” Sir John said. "These writer chaps are queer birds. It was necessary to think, and think quickly. Will you?” She thought, and it seemed to him she had never looked so self-disciplined and deliberate and beautiful. Martha was quite right. He could not see these two shrinking misses capering about in a nun’s habit and brandishing a defiant pistol. In this state it would have been all over with him, as, being stunned by the fall, it was some moments before he could recover himself, if another party had not unexpectedly come to his rescue. Sordid; but that was not Ruth's term for it; she had no precise commentary to offer. .
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