Shall we sit outside and drink a petit verre of something to give us an appetite while dinner is being prepared?” “Certainly not,” she answered. "My father!" she whispered. There were moments when she thought of turning upon this man and talking to him. He leaned back in a low chair, and watched her graceful movements, the play of her white hands as she bent over some wonderful machine. You'd better lose no time. He held down the light, and a moment afterwards beckoned, with a blanched cheek, to Rowland.
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