There was another little thing he had to say. 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. His patient was distinctly of a different order of life. “Lucy, have you noticed that I don’t even own a dog?” He spoke into her hair. No doubt there’s some little mistake. And he did not lack courage. Annabel shines like a star in the darkness, Rosamund queens it a rose, deep rose; But the lady I love is like sunshine in April weather, She gleams and gladdens, she warms—and goes. It is her duty to tell me, and I would not have her think that I had been trying to work upon your sympathies to learn her secrets.
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