Sublime

some small plump brownish person of firm but quiet carriage, who looks about her, but does not suppose that anybody is looking at her. If she has a broad face and square brow, well-marked eyebrows and curly dark hair, a certain expression of amusement in her glance which her mouth keeps the secret of, and for the rest features entirely insignifican

“Mr. Ravenel, if you—” “Mightn’t we call each other cousin?” “No.

“May I speak plainly, or do I have to be polite?” “I prefer politeness.” “All right. Your estate is being managed by a damned idiot.” “That’s the polite version?” Phoebe asked, mildly startled.

“Escort Mr. Ravenel up to my private apartments, where it seems I’ll be giving counsel to yet another of my daughter’s tormented suitors. This must be a penance for my misspent youth.”

“There’s a wild streak in the Marsden brood,” Lady Berwick said with a hint of disapproval, “which undoubtedly comes from the mother. American, you know.

ruth