His shoulders were bent, his face was furrowed with wrinkles. If there were any pearls, none came into the light. “If one was free,” she said, “one could go to him. ” Sir John stamped his letters, brushed his hat, and carefully gave his moustache an upward curl before the looking-glass. Elegant, a little scornful, she leaned slightly against the back of a chair and looked him steadily in the eyes. Ogilvy was full of a client’s trouble in that matter, a grave and even tragic trouble.
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