With his tongue lolling and his flea-bitten stump wagging apologetically, he glanced from face to face to see if there was any forgiveness visible. She had not felt comfortable in his presence from the first, and with Leonardo’s precepts in mind, was loath to trust him. “Oh God!” she cried, “Oh God!” and flung aside her opera-cloak, and for a time walked about the room—a Corsair’s bride at a crisis of emotion. Sir James Thornhill, then, rose.
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