White leaned forward in her chair with an anxious smile designed to throw oil upon the troubled waters. He was about to cut the sergeant short, when his eye fell on a gentleman walking along Piccadilly, his manner uncertain, his eyes shifting as if he sought something out. But, by Jove! you are fierce! You are like those Roman women who carry stilettos in their hair. ‘But this is not to my blame, grandpére. He was reaching wearily for some kind of buffer to his harrying conscience.
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