“TROUSERS!” she whispered. Even as she watched, the sweat of weakness began to form on his forehead and under the nether lip. ‘What are you, a nincompoop? She was Nicholas’s wife, of course. Both had dropped the rather elaborate politeness of the dining-room, and in their faces an impartial observer would have discovered little lines of obstinate wilfulness in common; a certain hardness—sharp, indeed, in the father and softly rounded in the daughter—but hardness nevertheless, that made every compromise a bargain and every charity a discount.
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