He carried a cane and a silk hat with a mourning-band in one gray-gloved hand; his frock-coat and trousers were admirable; his handsome face, his black mustache, his prominent brow conveyed an eager solicitude. It had seemed to her that life might be very good indeed with his kindliness and sacrifice about her. Michelle was sounding alarm bells everywhere in Lucy’s brain, but Lucy felt the pull of a 188 greater inertia, the urge to stay put so strong that to deny it was to deny the existence of gravity. His stories had enchanted her, even if in some deep corner of her heart she guessed they were not entirely true. ‘But what in the world was she doing at Remenham House?’ ‘Your quickness is astounding, Lucy,’ Gerald told her admiringly. He dragged it out, and perceiving, in spite of the decayed frame, that it was the body of Sir Rowland Trenchard, commanded his attendants to convey it up stairs—an order which was promptly obeyed. " As he spoke, a smile crossed Sheppard's countenance. ‘Nothing of the sort,’ argued Gerald.
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