‘Oh, mon dieu. She turned to Lucilla, a plea in her face. Lad, I admire you even in your folly. Only Leonardo, and then Jack, had shown her that she might be admired. Instinctively she knew—some human recollection she had inherited—that she must not disturb him in this man-agony. "Poor Jack!" cried Winifred, burying her face in her lover's bosom. The blue jowl, the fat-lidded eyes—now merry, now alert, now tungsten hard—the bullet head, the pudgy fingers and the square-toed shoes were all in conformation with the doctor's olden mental picture.
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