" "Leave you!" echoed the ruffian, with a contemptuous laugh; "—not just yet. "Don't swear, Jack, or I shall distrust you. Manning, Lady Palsworthy’s nephew, a tall young man of seven-and-thirty with a handsome, thoughtful, impassive face, a full black mustache, and a certain heavy luxuriousness of gesture. “I’d rather go as a chorus-girl,” she said. His next occupation was to take out his pistols, examine the priming, and rub the flints.
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