"Constance—or, rather, Mrs. You—It’s jolly of you to confide in me. In Darrell's open features, frankness and honour were written in legible characters; while, in Jack's physiognomy, cunning and knavery were as strongly imprinted. They had cried a little, both. "I owe you nothing," he repeated, dully. . She had a horrible glimpse of the once nice little old lady being also borne stationward, still faintly battling and very muddy—one lock of grayish hair straggling over her neck, her face scared, white, but triumphant.
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