He removed his cockaded hat, putting it down between them as he sat at the other end, placing himself at an angle and, crossing his legs, leaned back at his ease, his eyes fixed on her face. ’ She struggled. “You are not boring me,” she said, “but I would rather talk of something else. "Hear me, Sir Rowland!" he cried. Ah! how I wish, poor dear Sir Cecil were alive! he'd keep him in order. She was to fall back amongst the ruck, a young woman of talent, content perhaps to earn a scanty living by painting Christmas cards, or teaching at a kindergarten. I might forgive him that, for he obviously taught her a good deal that she has found useful.
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