Chapter XXII AN OLD FOOL Lady Ferringhall made room for him on the sofa by her side. Grudgingly he admired her. His face, as he looked down where his hand sought for a weapon concealed in her petticoat, was so close that she could see only the line of his firm jaw, the drag of his powdered hair that drew it into the military pigtail, and the black ribbon that adorned it. He trembled, not from any superstitious dread, but from an undefined sense of approaching danger. Like the nuns, she hardly ever looked in a mirror. Blueskin, however, was not unattended. “Difficulties indeed.
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