‘What, miss?’ asked Jack Kimble from behind her. ‘Then mayhap this will persuade you!’ With a scrape of steel, he drew his sword from its scabbard. Did she suppose him a possible pretender to her daughter’s hand? The girl—Dorothée, if memory served—was clearly marriageable, but he imagined most of these unhappy exiles were all but penniless. “Well!” she declared good-humouredly. “Bother it all!” she swore. Sheppard, returning his embrace with all a parent's tenderness. “I was never so clear in all my life as I have been in this business. You understand. And look down, so. I am a little afraid. Ann Veronica had a number of fragmentary impressions of Alice strangely transfigured in bridal raiment.
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