And I suppose it is too much to expect that any entirely English young lady would be prepared to tolerate me for the remainder of my life. "It is not too late to repair the wrong I have done my nephew," cried Trenchard. He looked at Annabel, whose face was buried in her hands— he looked back at Anna, who was regarding him with an easy composure which secretly irritated him. John said nothing. From this singular collection Trenchard turned to regard its possessor, who was standing at a little distance from him, still engaged in earnest discourse with his attendant, and, as he contemplated his ruthless countenance, on which duplicity and malignity had set their strongest seals, he could not help calling to mind all he had heard of Jonathan's perfidiousness to his employers, and deeply regretting that he had placed himself in the power of so unscrupulous a miscreant. The waterman sheltered his mouth with his hand while he spoke, or his voice would have been carried away by the violence of the blast. He became really companionable, discussed the new story he had in mind, and asked some questions about colour. . .
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