Something in his smile, in the cynical suggestiveness of his deferential tone, maddened her. He cupped her small hands in the bowl of his large ones and reassured her in the kindest manner, saying, “You will have the finest life that Florence has to offer. Do have some tea, won’t you? If you must, go then. What in the world was the wench up to now? For it must be she. ” She awoke out of a doze, as though she had never been sleeping. He sat back in an easy chair with a hand upon each of the elbows, and looked steadfastly into the fire.
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