Annabel passed on with a strained nod to her sister, and Sir John’s bow was a miracle of icy displeasure. She turned away from the doorway of the silk loom to observe. She spoke readily enough, but there was a new timidity in her manner. "It's better," observed Sheppard, meaningly. At this point Lucy, in an effort perhaps—foolhardy, in Gerald’s opinion—to pour oil on troubled waters, rose swiftly to her feet and came towards the old man, her hand held out.
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