" He smiled at her as he smiled at death, cheerfully. The girl was like some north-country woodland pool, penetrated by a single shaft of sunlight—beautifully clear in one spot and mysteriously obscured elsewhere. "Your uncle, Sir Rowland?" "It is no idle boasting," replied the other. She felt terribly modern, even sporty as the magazines declared you should be. . He breathed heavily, as though he had been running. .
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