Sir John, by instinct and training, was an unimaginative person. “I’m not going to kill you, John. Slowly a mirthless and very unpleasant smile dawned upon his face. Had she too been flying from something and had accepted this method of escape? But what frying-pan could be equal to this fire? All this led him back to the original circle. . . Rhea commanded her. Jonathan, however, still lingered. She began to exercise those lures which were bred in her bone—the bones of all women. On one side of the handbill a print of the reigning sovereign, Anne, had been pinned over the portrait of William the Third, whose aquiline nose, keen eyes, and luxuriant wig, were just visible above the diadem of the queen. She put a stool for him at a little distance from her own, and after he had seen the day’s work he hesitated, and then plunged into a resumption of their discussion about beauty. ‘She didn’t behave in the least like an émigré, if these people are anything to go by.
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