“Oh, you can act!” she cried. That is what I don't understand. We dine at seven-thirty. Recognising the handwriting, he glanced swiftly at the signature, and uttering an explosive curse, cast the paper from him. The light of memory flashed in the man’s face. ‘Lawks-a-mussy! It’s Miss Mary. Then it was the woman herself who was changed. The person, shortly afterwards ushered into the room, seemed by the imperfect light,—for the evening was advancing, and the chamber darkened by heavy drapery,—to be a middle-sized middle-aged man, of rather vulgar appearance, but with a very shrewd aspect. With me behaving as if everything was infinitely matter-of-fact, what could he do? And just then Heaven sent old Manningtree—I didn’t tell you before of the fortunate intervention of Manningtree, did I? He was looking quite infernally distinguished, with a wide crimson ribbon across him—what IS a wide crimson ribbon? Some sort of knight, I suppose.
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