Chapter IX BRENDON’S LUCK Anna sat in a chair in her room and sighed. "My chickens are hatched, or, at least, nearly so," replied Shotbolt, with increased merriment. Apparently he did not see his recent companions. At the back of her mind there seemed always one irrelevant qualifying spectator whose presence she sought to disregard. “Jacques is wounded and we are arrested by this imbecile of a sergeant. Clotilde’s stunning green eyes were reflected in the gazes of the tender young children, but their faces had been hollow and sunken, their hair matted, and their clothing in bad need of repair. A loud buzz of curiosity circulated among the domestics; some of whom— especially the females—leaned forward to obtain a peep at the culprit. It’s my choice, Lucy. “Well, I don’t think you told him as much as that, did you?” Lady Lescelles asked. As they careened into a parking space, Lucy clung to the upholstery so as not to be thrown against the front seats. The sidewalk resonated with the pounding of cold rain by the time she left the building. There followed a silence which endured several minutes; or, rather a tableau. “I thought every one had heard,” said Miss Klegg. ” She sniffled.
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