The locket contained the face of her mother—all the family album she had. He leaned back in a low chair, and watched her graceful movements, the play of her white hands as she bent over some wonderful machine. "I've said it," rejoined Jonathan, peremptorily. ” “May I put you in a hansom?” he asked, lifting his stick. A pair of startled blue eyes looked up into his. The atmosphere at dinner was not propitious. His tone was rough, almost threatening.
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