She looked directly at his face, his perpetually graying hair, his hawkish nose, his long cheekbones. It might be supposed that these articles, when thrust together into the bag, would have jingled; but these skilful practitioners managed matters so well that no noise was made. “I may seem unduly— anxious. How can he help you?” She threw such a look upon him that even he, Sir John Ferringhall, carpetmerchant, hide-bound Englishman, slow-witted, pompous, deliberate, felt his heart beat to music. ‘And nor do I. ‘Civilian peace-keeping forces, you know.
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