The features were indistinct, but was that not a halo of white about it? And the dark shadow below, was that a cloak, or the habit of a nun? Skirting the dancing, from which he had taken a breather—not from lack of energy, but to escape the inanities of the young ladies he had partnered—Gerald made his way to a side door in the saloon and opened it. Something, I'm convinced, has happened to the boys. Of course. Hill, Meysey Hill. “A thick-set, coarse-looking young man, Anna!” she exclaimed in a hoarse excited whisper. She dropped beside the chair, sat cross-legged, and laughed at the futile jade-coloured wall. The evening breeze came; the bamboo shades on the veranda clicked and rasped; the loose edges of the manuscript curled. The Morning Post was hungry for governesses and nursery governesses, but held out no other hopes; the Daily Telegraph that morning seemed eager only for skirt hands. Boys, at the time of which we write, were attired like men of their own day, or certain charity-children of ours; and the stripling in question was dressed in black plush breeches, and a gray drugget waistcoat, with immoderately long pockets, both of which were evidently the cast-off clothes of some one considerably his senior. The Wastrel did not relish this. Believe me, Anna. ‘Something for you, Lucy?’ he asked, interrupting a heated argument that had obviously been in progress for some little time before their arrival. A smile trembled at the corners of her mouth as she recalled Gerald’s ridiculous upbraiding of his own reflection in the mirror. He can cure all diseases of the flesh as I taught him.
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