Glancing towards him she saw that a shadow had fallen upon his face. Barleycorn had sent to the mat for the count of nine: unless the young fool's daddy had a bundle of coin. The image in the glass was not clear, for the light was not bright enough to see properly, but the shadows of her riding habit and the hat with its waving plumes framed a countenance that gazed serenely back at her out of long-lashed blue eyes. Martha was quite right. ‘They eloped.
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