"Oh, pshaw!" he exclaimed. "As if I didn't know why you won't let me take 'em! Mr. French will give me anything I ask for when he gets home-that's one comfort.
Did you know he may be here any day? The man who brought the flowers told me so yesterday."
Deena's complexion flushed a lively pink, or else it was the reflection from the wood fire, leaping in tongues of flame behind the tall brass fender. She certainly looked singularly girlish as she sat behind the array of Ponsonby breakfast silver, her severe black frock, with the transparent bands of white at throat and wrists, only serving to mark her youthful freshness.
Her beauty was of little consequence to her brother, who was busy considering the advantages that might accrue to himself from Stephen's return.
"When Mr. French went away, he said I could ride his saddle horse, and though I've been there half a dozen times since Ben left, that old beast of a coachman won't let me inside the stable.
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