Capes was an exceptionally fair man of two or three-and-thirty, so ruddily blond that it was a mercy he had escaped light eyelashes, and with a minor but by no means contemptible reputation of his own. Later, she understood his reasons; and it had now become habit. ‘Dieu du ciel, for what do you take me?’ ‘I don’t know,’ he threw at her. F. These fellows must be right,” he added thoughtfully, “and yet—there’s a mystery somewhere.
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