" "Who told you this is his portrait?" demanded Trenchard. At table he carved in a gloomy but resolute manner. No doubt— because he did not understand you—he thought you had run away with someone. It was high afternoon, there was no great throng of footpassengers, and many an eye from omnibus and pavement rested gratefully on her fresh, trim presence as she passed young and erect, with the light of determination shining through the quiet self-possession of her face.
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