He was a manly man, free from any strong maternal strain, and he had loved his dark-eyed, dainty bright-colored, and active little wife with a real vein of passion in his sentiment. "That man should have been an Italian bravo," murmured the knight, sinking into a chair: "he has neither fear nor compunction. “Won’t you give me your address?” She shook her head. ‘To me, quickly!’ There was a brief hush, and then the shouts resumed and several pairs of feet clattered towards her from, as it seemed, several directions. The Wastrel, his eyes full of humorous evil, stood inside the room. Lord Charvill’s sense of justice would not, however, allow him to repudiate his granddaughter, if indeed this female proved to be the infant lost to the family so many years ago.
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