A wild passion of shame and self-disgust swept over her. Gay, was a stout, good-looking, good-humoured man, about thirty-six, with a dark complexion, an oval face, fine black eyes, full of fire and sensibility, and twinkling with roguish humour—an expression fully borne out by the mouth, which had a very shrewd and sarcastic curl. He read the Times with an unusually passionate intentness, and then declared suddenly for the earlier of the two trains he used. ‘Coward,’ she threw at him, brandishing the sword.
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