"
"We are, I hope," she said, smiling kindly at him. She gave him her hand.
"Right, Sancie. Look here," he said sternly. "I'll punch Nevile's head for
you, if you like."
"I shouldn't like it at all," she assured him.
"We're old acquaintance, you know. He'd take it from me better than from
anyone else--like Senhouse."
"Mr. Senhouse would never touch him," she was sure. He dropped in
Chevenix's estimation immediately.
"Quaker, eh? I didn't know that."
Sanchia explained. "He can't be changed in those sort of things. He would
only use force against wild beasts."
"Well," cried Chevenix, "what do you think Nevile's going to be? My advice
to you is to get out as soon as you can. And when you're in town, command
me." They parted firm friends.
Mrs. Wilmot remained, against her inmost judgment, against her maid
Purcell's clear advice, for one more day. The night of Chevenix's
departure she was there, and on the morrow was to be conveyed to the
Trenchards', across the county. Wanless had her steadily in its score pair
of eyes for twenty-four hours, as Purcell, her maid, had foreseen. "You
are doing a strange thing, ma'am, permit me to say." Purcell was an
elderly spinster, who only required her own permission to say what she
pleased.
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