S. Gay, was a stout, good-looking, good-humoured man, about thirty-six, with a dark complexion, an oval face, fine black eyes, full of fire and sensibility, and twinkling with roguish humour—an expression fully borne out by the mouth, which had a very shrewd and sarcastic curl. He walked across the Park and called upon his sister. ‘Oh, you may come to me on any mission you like,’ uttered Mrs Sindlesham roguishly. ‘You do not understand, Gérard. ‘You think I am like that Valade? No, a thousand times. I have only one question to ask you. She was never violent when angry: she became as calm and baffling as the sea in doldrums.
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