Did she suppose him a possible pretender to her daughter’s hand? The girl—Dorothée, if memory served—was clearly marriageable, but he imagined most of these unhappy exiles were all but penniless. “I’ve got nothing in the world to pack with except a toy size portmanteau. I’ve never found them hostile. If she could not marry him, she would not marry any one. ‘You’re the most troublesome wretch I’ve ever encountered,’ he told her bitterly. Give me the books. 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. “To be an actress,” he said, “you require a special and peculiar temperament. “Much as I hate rows, I’ve either got to make a stand or give in altogether. “Ruin me? Think of me with fondness? Are you dying of cancer or something?” He demanded. "Go to your own room, woman, directly, or I'll make you!" "Make me!" echoed Mrs. Anna sprang to her feet with a startled cry.
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