One with the appearance of a bald little gnome yawned agonizingly. " The prison bars of circumstance, they no longer encompassed her. She possessed what he affected to despise, but secretly worshipped—the innate charm of breeding. I can’t do it even decently myself, and I dare not run the risk of ruining all my clothes. How can he help you?” She threw such a look upon him that even he, Sir John Ferringhall, carpetmerchant, hide-bound Englishman, slow-witted, pompous, deliberate, felt his heart beat to music. Someone, it appeared, was trying to profit from that fact.
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