Anna jumped into a waiting hansom. "Long life to the Marquis!" reiterated Terence; "he's an honour to ould Ireland!" "Didn't I tell you how it would be?" remarked Quilt. ’ ‘Gosse,’ corrected Lucilla. A pair of long-lashed blue eyes studied them both as she slowly brought her hands down to rest by her sides. “I have made no arrangements as yet— none at all. Something in his smile, in the cynical suggestiveness of his deferential tone, maddened her. It was a night of storm and terror, which promised each moment to become more stormy and more terrible. He was the beachcomber, or the old sailor with the black pearl (Ruth's tales), or the wastrel musician McClintock had described to him.
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