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The Vanished Messenger by E. Phillips (Edward Phillips) Oppenheim
page 86 of 353 (24%)
She seated herself a few feet away from him. Mr. Fentolin watched
her for several moments. He himself had his back to the light.
The woman, on the other hand, was facing it. The windows were high,
and the curtains were drawn back to their fullest extent. A cold
stream of northern light fell upon her face. Mr. Fentolin gazed at
her and nodded her head slightly.

"My dear Lucy," he declared, "you are wonderful--a perfect cameo,
a gem. To look at you now, with your delightful white hair and your
flawless skin, one would never believe that you had ever spoken a
single angry word, that you had ever felt the blood flow through
your veins, or that your eyes had ever looked upon the gentle things
of life."

She looked at him, still without speech. The immobility of her
face was indeed a marvellous thing. Mr. Fentolin's expression
darkened.

"Sometimes," he murmured softly, "I think that if I had strong
fingers--really strong fingers, you know, Lucy--I should want to
take you by the throat and hold you tighter and tighter, until your
breath came fast, and your eyes came out from their shadows."

She turned over a few pages of her notebook. To all appearance
she had not heard a word.

"To-day," she announced, "is the fourth of April. Shall I send out
the various checks to those men in Paris, New York, Frankfort, St.
Petersburg, and Tokio?"

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